Real Men (Wear Tutus)
by Pluma Desatada
Summary: Tony is wide receiver in an NFL team. One day, Loki comes pick Coach up for lunch. He's a ballet dancer, and the young football players find this endlessly amusing. Coach has a sissy for a brother? Thor dares them to take Loki down on the field. They fail utterly, but Loki manages to catch something: the attention of a certain wide-receiver. Ballet AU. US Football AU. Sports AU.


**A/N: **This fic was **co-written with iswyn** (you can find her under than name in tumblr and AO3)

* * *

><p>There is a guy talking to Coach when the team finishes stretching after their laps and heads back to the sidelines.<p>

Tony doesn't notice him right away, too busy rolling his neck (fucking Bruce and his penchant for using excessive force during practice) and thinking that he's gonna need to talk to Nat afterwards.

The first one who spots him is Clint, and he immediately stops dead in his tracks and flings his arms out so the entire team will stop too, jaw dropping. "Guys, look," he whispers after a moment, pointing. "Coach has a _boyfriend_."

They look up on cue and see the guy

It's obvious that he's talking about him, even before he says anything else. Trust Clint to spew his opinion before thinking. Of course, Tony might have had a similar reaction, if he had no manners.

Because the guy is wearing _skinny pants_.

Seriously. He's tall and slim, like a stick that might break if you push too hard, with long dark hair, and… skinny pants. _Dark pink _skinny pants. He and Coach are standing too close to be strangers—they're obviously familiar.

Tony certainly hasn't ever seen him on the field before.

Of course, Clint is wrong. Coach is happily married and definitely not gay. His wife is pregnant. There's no way he's got a boyfriend on the side.

Still, though. Guy in skinny pants. What.

Steve gives Clint a shove, knocking him into Tony's arm. "Cool it, Barton. Coach's private life is none of your business."

Then Thor laughs and throws an arm around the stranger's shoulders, only for the man to slither out from under it and push at Thor's chest.

"Ooh, rejected," says Clint, delighted.

Tony rolls his eyes. "Don't be such a jackass all the time, Clint. Maybe they're friends."

Clint, never one to think things through, grins and says in his most-definitely-outdoor-voice, "All I know is that Coach is hanging out with some kind of sissy."

Apparently they are close enough that their voices carry over, because the guy looks up at them and quirks an eyebrow. "You ought to teach your ducklings some manners, Thor," he says, also pitching his voice to carry. Said voice wouldn't be out of place narrating a commercial, despite the obvious disdain dripping from it.

Thor doesn't look any more impressed with Clint's pronouncement than the stranger. In fact, he looks rather red in the face. "What did you call my brother, Barton?" he growls.

It's strange to hear him angry, since Coach is one of those guys who hardly ever takes offense to anything. Dick graffiti, jokes about him taking an arrow in the knee, even comments about his wife's _assets_—every obnoxious thing that gets thrown around the locker rooms seems to not phase him at all.

Of course, Tony hasn't ever heard anyone insult his brother before.

Heck, Tony didn't even know Coach _had_ a brother.

"A sissy," Clint insists, either blind to the danger or too proud to back off. "All he's missing is butterfly wings, and he'll be a _complete_ fairy."

This prompts a few awkward laughs from the team.

"He's just a few nuts short of being a total fruitcake," someone adds from the back of the mob, apparently inspired.

The guys' laughter is more genuine this time.

Even Tony's lips twitch against all sense of self-preservation.

Thor's brother rolls his eyes and looks away from them, like they're right down there with cheap wall decoration in his estimation, and probably just as unoriginal. "Shall we go, then?"

"Oh, look," someone pipes up from behind Tony, "he's running away."

And then the most terrifying thing happens: Coach smirks.

_That_ sure shuts them up.

"Thor, no," Coach's brother starts. "We don't have time for this."

"They're my team, little brother," Thor counters. "I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't teach them the error of their ways."

This seems to be something they've gone through before, because the apparently-impending argument doesn't even happen. The guy's shoulders drop, defeated. "Fine. But can we hurry? I need to get back to work after lunch. I'm not on football camp vacation like these meatheads."

Coach just grins even wider. "Sure. All we need is one play." He grabs a ball off the table closest to him and tosses it to his brother.

Another round of laughter ensues when the irritated young man fumbles and nearly drops the ball on the ground.

He looks up at Thor accusingly. "How do you catch these tiny things?"

"Sorry it's not a hundred pounds of ballerina, little brother, but that wouldn't work for this exercise." Coach turns to the team then, and his grin returns. He starts calling out the defensive backs, and motions them onto the field. "Five seconds left on the clock, and this sissy here has the ball. If he scores, we're not going to the Superbowl."

There are a few disgruntled and disbelieving looks among the players, obviously wondering whether Coach actually wants them to tackle his brother. Who looks entirely too fragile to survive it, in Tony's estimation.

Thor's brother, far from looking worried, facepalms. "You expect me to run like this?" he asks, motioning to himself with his free hand, and sighs. Putting the ball between his thighs, he quickly divests himself of his oversized sweatshirt and scarf and pushes them into Thor's chest. "Hold these," he orders, now in a long-sleeved and form-fitting black t-shirt. He quickly puts his hair up in a tight ponytail and grabs the ball like he's grabbing a purse.

His wrists are really delicate-looking, almost like a girl's.

They'll snap in a second if he doesn't hold it properly, Tony realizes. "You, uh, you have to cradle it, like, in the crook of your elbow and your hand," he offers.

The man turns to Tony and tilts his head. "Like a baby?" he asks, adjusting his grip appropriately and waiting for Tony's nod. "And I just have to carry it past the dotted line near the Y thingy, right?" he asks, looking between them like a lost tourist, his voice quavering slightly.

Tony shares a look of _oh-god-he's-going-to-die_ with Clint. Can they go to jail for killing a non-player during practice? "Uh, yeah."

By the time this is done, all the defensive players Thor named have assumed their positions.

Tony almost can't bring himself to watch. He wonders if he's going to be recounting the story to police in a few hours.

o

When Thor blows his whistle, everyone flinches a little except for his brother, who just breaks into a run.

A moment later the point Coach wanted to make becomes exceedingly clear.

The first player catches up with Coach's brother and just goes for it, throwing himself at the guy. Without so much as a look at the frankly enormous defensive back, he fucking _pirouettes_ out of the way and continues running, his long legs suddenly powerful and graceful.

This continues all the way down the field. To the thirty yard line, where he ducks under another player's attempt at a tackle; to the ten, where he _leaps like a fucking gazelle_ in the middle of a stride to avoid another. He even slows down just before he reaches the end zone, turning around to give the remaining players a smile and wave as he hops backward across the line and spikes the ball.

Tony picks up his jaw from where it fell sometime in the last few seconds. He's utterly speechless. He can't remember the last time he saw anyone run that fast, or avoid so many tackles at once.

"Holy. Fuck," Clint mutters under his breath, obviously sharing the sentiment.

In the field, Thor's brother lets his hair down and flips it over his shoulder.

"He didn't need any advice, did he?" Steve asks from somewhere on Tony's right.

Coach snorts. "Please. Who do you think I practiced with when we were kids?"

Tony's brain finally engages. "What—what's his name?" he asks, his cheeks burning at having underestimated Thor's brother just because he looks a bit like a girl.

"Loki," Thor tells him. "His name is Loki."

_Loki_.

Tony will remember that name.

o o o

A quick google search reveals that this Loki fellow isn't just a ballet dancer, like Tony suspected—he's a _famous_ one. Of course, it stands to reason that Tony wouldn't have known that, since he knows as much about ballet as he does astrophysics.

There are pictures of him all over the internet, though, and Tony finds himself more than a little bit offended that Loki seems to have more fansites than he does. Of course, if Tony were a teenage girl, he thinks he'd be pretty impressed with the pictures of Loki in form fitting costumes, too. Maybe he's impressed anyway. He couldn't pull off that kind of outfit without a few unappealing bumps and a whole lot of shame.

(Secretly, he wonders if he should start padding the front of his pants when he's in uniform, like the male ballet dancers so obviously do.)

From Loki's own website, Tony learns that he recently opened his own dance studio. It seems he even gives dance lessons to amateurs. Amateurs like Tony.

Tony doesn't want to be a ballet dancer, of course. He just can't shake the image of that lithe form easily evading no less than three tackles in a fifty yard run like they weren't even there, and winning the shock and amazement of the entire team.

Tony is only twenty-six. He still has time to make his reputation. He could be that guy.

He just needs someone to teach him how to do it.

He needs a ballet dancer, whether he realized it before or not. No more losing big plays to workhorses like Clint just because he can't slip a defender or two. Tony can catch anything. He just needs to know how to keep upright and in bounds in the face of excessively friendly defensive backs.

o

Tony is not terrified when he shows up at Loki's dance studio. Really.

He's just cautious because he's on unfamiliar turf. Or a complete lack of turf.

The studio is all mirror and shiny hardwood flooring. It's clean to the point of sterility, and so heavily air-conditioned that Tony can't repress a shiver when he walks in. In short, it's everything the football field isn't.

Maybe he shouldn't have come.

What the hell was he thinking? _Ballet?_ His father would kill him for even thinking about it. Howard Stark is a wealth of heteronormativity, and he would not approve of his only son getting training from someone Clint had referred to as a sissy.

And yet…

His father's approval would be a foregone conclusion if he could avoid defensive backs like Loki had. And it isn't like he's doing anything that could put his career at risk...

The beautiful brunette behind the front counter smiles at him and asks, "Can I help you?"

Tony startles. His first instinct is to immediately walk right back out the door, but he controls himself. Pulling out his best patented knock-the-ladies-dead Stark grin, he asks, "I don't imagine Loki is here, is he?"

She quirks an eyebrow at him, and gives him a once over. Then she smiles appreciatively and gives him another. "That depends. Fan? Friend? Who would I tell him was asking?"

"Friend of his brother," Tony answers back immediately, already having expected and planned accordingly for that question.

Her eyes widen a bit at that response, then her lips fall into a coy smile that Tony's seen more times than he can count. "A football player friend?"

Tony wonders exactly _what _she's imagining right now. He's certainly imagining how flexible she might be, if she's a ballerina... He forces himself to focus. "Yeah, actually. Thor made him demo a few moves for us. It was, ah, enlightening." His ears burn with remembered embarrassment at having underestimated the dude so completely.

And the asshole had stood there and pretended to know absolutely nothing, playing them all like puppets.

"I can imagine," she purrs, the smile on her face turning devious rather than flirtatious. "Well, Loki should be finishing practice soon. You can wait for him right here." She points at the chairs over to the left of her desk.

Tony would have preferred to wait in Loki's office, far from prying eyes, but this will have to do. He'll just pretend he's in a photoshoot or something.

o

A class must be about to start, because soon the hall is crowded with preteen girls in blue swimsuits(?) and pink tights.

At first Tony is very careful about not looking at them, because he figures that they are basically naked and he's a grown man, and his staring might just make the girls (or their mothers) uncomfortable.

However, it soon becomes apparent that the girls don't give a flying fuck about Tony, and he lets his eyes wander.

The bodysuits look uncomfortable as all fuck. So tight, digging into their shoulders. And the shoes. Oh god, the _shoes_.

One of the girls demonstrates a—a twirl, or something, to her friends, turning around on the very tips of her toes.

Tony's feet hurt just seeing it happen.

At long last, the doors on the other end of the corridor open and five girls around sixteen come out. The smaller girls start trickling into the room, apparently the next class, and finally, _finally_, Loki comes out, wearing _tights for fuck's sake_, accompanied by—

Is that a boy?

Tony gapes at the gangly, awkward adolescent form. Yeah, that's definitely a boy whose back Loki it patting. He's wearing tights and a shirt like Loki, not gauze skirts and swimsuits like the girls

Male students. Right, makes sense. Male ballet dancers have to come from somewhere. They're not just born fully formed like Greek goddesses.

At least teaching Tony won't be a new experience for Loki.

Thor's brother lets his hair out of the bun as he turns away from the front desk and disappears into another doorway, clearly not the teacher of the preteen girls—much to their disappointment, Tony bets.

He gets up to follow him—

"Are you Tony Stark?" a young voice asks him.

Still thinking of how he's going to ask Loki to teach him, Tony makes a double-take.

The _cutest_ little girl is looking up at him with stars shining in her eyes.

Okay, maybe not so little. It's just the pigtails that make her look young. Tony clears his throat. He's lost track of Loki anyway, what would wasting a few minutes hurt? "Yeah, I'm him," he says dumbly, eyes still tracking the corridor. "Er, I mean, that's me." He forces himself to look at her. "Can I help you?"

The girl's cheeks bloom pink. "I, uh, I—I really liked that touchdown you made in the third quarter on Sunday," she gushes, the stars in her eyes going supernova.

Tony's mouth drops open a little—he was _not_ expecting a fan here, of all places, and certainly not a tween girl—but he recovers smoothly. "Yeah, I'm pretty proud of that one, myself," he tells her honestly.

She smiles brilliantly. "Y-you like b-ballet?" she asks, tripping over her words like a newborn colt trips over its own legs.

Cute. Should he lie, or tell the truth and let her down? "Uhhh, I think it's a very useful discipline," he starts, carefully not-answering whether he likes it or not. "You ballerinas are, er, very graceful." He rubs the back of his neck. "I'm gonna take a few classes to help my game."

There. Crisis averted.

His little fan gets a very strange gleam in her eye. "Yes!" She makes a fist in front of her face, brimming with determination. "I knew I could like dancing _and_ football! Wait until I tell my brother!"

"Uh, sure," Tony agrees, "you can like whatever you want."

She beams up at him for a moment before one of her little classmates comes over to tug on her arm. "We're late! Let's go!"

Tony grins down at her one last time, "Knock 'em dead, kiddo."

She gives an excited little leap as she heads off with her friends.

"That was surprisingly sensitive of you, Mr. Stark," Loki's voice catches him off-guard. Somehow, he's circled around to Tony's left, when the hallway is on the right.

Without conscious thought, Tony throws out his automatic response to _Mr. Stark_. "It's Tony." Then he pauses to think about what Loki said, and his cocky grin comes back. "And who's underestimating who now, Mr. Olson?"

"Call me Loki." Loki's eyes are strangely green in the bright light of the front window, and his penetrating gaze creeps Tony out a little bit. "And _touche_. Now, I take it from your pronouncement to my young student that you came here intent on some tutoring?"

This straightforward statement throws Tony off even more than before. It's like the usual manners have just been tossed out the window, and without his script, he's is at a loss for what he's supposed to say. "Um, yes? Please?" He manages to get that much out without stuttering like the village idiot, but then he comes up blank. How does he request what he wants? How does he say anything to Coach's brother without looking like a complete tool?

Loki seems to have no such hesitation. He probably has conversations like this all the time. He seems to start them. "I presume that given your _exalted _state, you're not interested in tutoring with a class?"

That drags Tony directly out of his confusion. "Nothing exalted about my state. I just need to be able to do that you did on that field." That comes out a little too serious, so he makes himself grin. "I don't know if anyone else comes for the kind of 'tutoring' I'm looking for, but I'm not too proud for a class."

Truth be told, Tony would actually prefer private tutoring. Having everyone and their brother know that he's taking ballet lessons has never been his goal. But he's not going to be called arrogant and just accept it. He showed up at a ballet studio, didn't he? He thinks he's proven that he can swallow his pride and try something unorthodox.

Given the look of consideration Loki is giving him now, he's managed to be a surprise. That puts him back on solid ground. Tony is used to being the surprising one. The fact that he's not just some meatheaded football player is a surprise to everyone. They expect him to know about football and girls, and maybe beer, but that's it.

"Alright. I think we can arrange something for you." Loki nods. "Assuming, of course, that you don't take issue at accepting instruction from a sissy." He says this matter-of-factly, like he couldn't care less either way—but his eyes are fixed on Tony's.

Does that mean Loki will teach him _himself_?

Because on the one hand, it's gonna be _embarrassing_, learning from someone who is just so good at what he does, while Tony is... not. On the other hand, Tony wants nothing but the best, and Loki, according to the Internet, is the best.

_Pride tastes so bitter going down_, he thinks, suddenly unable to hold Loki's gaze. "Will accepting instruction from a sissy involve wearing tights?" he temporizes, glancing at Loki's legs. He's no stranger to tights, as most football players wear them under the uniform when it's cold out, but that's just it. They wear them _under the uniform, _not _just tights and nothing else._

And certainly not jammed so far up into their crotch that their bulge is visible to anyone who cares to look.

Loki smiles like the Cheshire cat. "If you're scared they'll make your ass look fat, you can always wear a tutu."

Tony has a sudden mental picture of himself in a bubblegum-pink tutu, in the middle of a game. Oh, he'd win alright—the opposing team would be too busy rolling on the turf laughing to even attempt to catch him.

His horror must be evident on his face, because a snort cracks Loki's impassive façade. "Relax. Tutus aren't required."

Tony lets out the air he's been holding all at once. "Oh, thank God," he breathes. Yeah, he can totally deal with tights. He glances up at Loki—wow, dude is _tall_—and clears his throat. "Right, so... I'm free most evenings, as long as we don't have a game. But I guess you already know our schedule."

Loki gives an amused smile at that. "Would you look at that? Football players can be taught after all."

Once again, Tony can feel his ears burning. He worries that eventually the blush is just going to stay in his cheeks. "Um, yeah. It just takes a little time and repetition. We're pretty dumb, you know." It's so hard to keep from letting his eyes slip down to his shoes again. Despite the fact that _Tony Stark does not feel shame_, he's finding Loki's intense gaze inexplicably uncomfortable.

One corner of Loki's mouth tips upward at this, and he nods. "Yes, obviously." His tone implies that he doesn't believe his words any more than Tony does.

Will anything about Loki Olson ever be predictable and comfortable for Tony?

"Anyway," Loki continues, looking down at his wristwatch. "As it happens, I have very little free time, but I think I can pencil you in for Tuesdays at seven and Thursdays at... eight, I think. You'll have to check in with Lisa."

Lisa? Ah, the brunette at the front desk, Tony decides. "Sure, no problem," he replies, trying not to feel disappointed. So what if he wanted to learn how to prance through the field like a goddamn unicorn right away? Like Loki said, he's a busy guy. "See you Tuesday, then."

o o o

At seven o'clock sharp the following Tuesday, Tony saunters through the front door of Loki's dance studio. He's wearing his sweatpants instead of tights, but he swears to himself and anyone listening to his thoughts that he just didn't have time to go buy tights, and the ones he has are all part of his football uniform and made of shiny sweat-wicking material.

The lack has nothing to do with an unwillingness to wear effeminate-looking ballet clothes.

It was a tough weekend. That was the problem, not Tony's nerves. He took a nasty hit on the field, and the fact that he came out relatively unscathed was a miracle. Natasha had told him to keep off the ankle for a few days, and well… Tuesday evening is "a few days" after Sunday morning. He sure wasn't going to wait until Thursday.

He isn't entirely sure why he's so excited about learning how to dance like a girl, but he is.

A small part of him worries that Loki won't be impressed with his dodging the tights issue, but he hopes that it won't be a big thing. The story of Tony's life: skirt as close to the edge of the rules as possible without falling off the edge and pissing everyone off.

The brunette, Lisa, smiles at him as he enters. "He said you'd be here." The look on her face says that she had doubts.

"Yeah, well, I told him I would. So here I am." Tony looks around the entry nervously. He feels like an addict who has come to meet his dealer, and thinks everyone is looking at him. "Is he… um, that is…"

"He'll be here in a minute. He had a rehearsal downtown this afternoon, but he said he'd be here. So he will." She winks at him and motions to the chairs next to the window.

Nodding his thanks, however much he's pretending gratitude, he moves to sit in one of the chairs. He hates it. He feels like he's on display for the whole world.

_Look, everyone! Tony Stark is in a ballet studio!_

Then, it hits him.

Who cares?

No, seriously, what kind of idiot honestly cares what Tony is doing with his free time? They don't care when he drinks, and picks up supermodels, and drives too fast. They don't care when he goes on an off-season bender that would impress Keith Richards. As long as he's not messing up their bets on him, or their fantasy football leagues, or what-the-hell-ever, no one really cares what he does.

A little ballet might be the least offensive thing a football player has ever done with his free time.

So he draws himself up from the slumped posture that was his attempt at anonymity, and stretches his shoulders, resting his arms along the backrests of the adjoining chairs like he owns the place.

All he has to do is keep telling himself that he doesn't care, that it doesn't matter. Eventually, he might even believe it.

That's right around the time that Loki comes walking in. Well, 'walking' is kind of the wrong word for it, really. It's more like dancing, which is probably a cliche, but his gracefulness is a little disconcerting. Or gliding.

Tony bets Loki could 'walk' like that while wearing bricks tied to his feet and he'd not make a noise.

Loki, contrary to what Tony was expecting, is wearing jeans. A worn, faded affair, ripped at the knees, probably sold like that. Hobo chic, or something. They do a wonderful job of camouflaging Loki's leg muscles.

Just like the oversized sweatshirt did on the field, that day, Tony realizes. No wonder he had underestimated Loki—he really does look stick-thin when he's not wearing skin-tight stuff.

"Oh, good, here you are," Loki says for all greeting. "Follow me." He gestures down the corridor with his head, a _follow me_ gesture if Tony ever saw one, and starts walking again.

So businesslike. There's no hint of last week's teasing—is he annoyed at something?

Tony jumps to his feet and walks quickly behind Loki. Maybe he should have ordered the tights over the internet or something. Got Pepper on it. She would have raised her perfectly plucked eyebrow at him, but she would have gotten the job done.

Loki leads him to a practice room that looks _huge_ thanks to being walled entirely by mirrors.

Is that out of vanity, Tony wonders, or out of sheer determined perfectionism, so that whoever is rehearsing there can look at her or his body from every fucking angle until they get a pose exactly right?

He's suddenly very glad he couldn't get the tights after all.

"Well?" Loki's voice echoes in the room. "Get ready."

Tony turns. "Get ready for wha—" He cuts off, spotting Loki.

Loki, who ditched the jeans and the sweater sometime when Tony was distracted.

Loki, who has his arms crossed over his chest and one eyebrow arched so high that Pepper would be jealous.

Tony's jaw drops, and he forcibly removes his eyes from Loki's _very_ noticeable bulge. _Do not mention the tights. Do not mention the tights._ His nervous gaze finally lands on Loki's feet. "Those shoes look different from what the girls were wearing last time," he comments, thinking, _Nice save._

Loki looks at him like he can't actually believe someone can be as stupid as Tony. "Did you do no research _at all_?"

And yeah, Tony's starting to feel the dumbness._ Someone please turn on a fan,_ he thinks, Pushing down the urge to go hide in the men's room. "Uhhh, no?"

Loki facepalms, muttering something about ducklings and Thor and murder. He deflates with a huge loud sigh. "Very well. We shall go over the basics now, and I expect you to be wearing your full uniform for our next session. _Ballet_ uniform."

Like Tony might be so dumb as to show up in shoulder pads, helmet and cleats.

Tony swallows hard and nods. He wonders if Coach and Loki get the_ and-now-you're-dead_ tone and body language from their parents, or if it's just universal to all exasperated teachers.

Loki starts the lesson by describing each piece of the uniform so Tony will know what to buy. Tights, slippers, an elastic belt or suspenders to to hold the tights up—and the pièce de résistance: the thong.

Okay, it's actually something called a 'dance belt', and not too different from a jockstrap except that the elastic goes between his ass cheeks and not under them, but Tony's brain is stuck on the fact that there is a guy wearing a _thong_ not six feet away from him who expects _him_ to wear a thong too in the near future.

He's suddenly very uncomfortable. Oh god, what if Loki _hits_ _on him _or something?

Loki snaps his fingers in front of Tony's eyes, bringing him back to Earth. "Would you like to start your lesson any time soon, or shall I let you stare into nothingness a few more minutes?"

"No, no, I'm good." Tony shakes his head, trying to clear it of thongs and sissies and all other manner of things that terrify him a little bit. "I'm ready to go."

Loki rolls his eyes. "I think the conversation about the necessary wardrobe has proven that you're not, but I'll just assume you know what I mean. Now let's get started, as much as we can."

Nodding his agreement, Tony follows Loki's lead and sits down on the floor for preparatory stretches. This, Tony is familiar with. This is comfortable and simple and easy. Unconsciously, he starts quietly whistling a tune as he follows along. That earns him a funny look from Loki, but it passes as they stand and begin the lesson in earnest.

First off: foot positions. Sounds easy.

o

Half an hour later, Tony is sweaty, panting, and wondering why anyone would ever think ballet effeminate. Loki made everything look light and effortless, like he was just walking across the room. It was a load of shit. The man clearly is some kind of olympic-level athlete, and he was hiding it behind oversized sweatshirts and artfully torn jeans.

Tony kind of wishes he was still hiding it, actually. He isn't _looking_ at the bulge in Loki's tights. It's totally natural, after all. Tony's eyes aren't drawn to it anymore than they're drawn to his teammates' man parts in the locker room. It's just that it's_ right there in front of him_. He can't help but look.

It's totally not his fault. It's Loki's. It's ballet's. Who came up with wearing tights, anyway? He wonders how Loki can possibly be comfortable with everything hanging out like that. Does Loki wear a cup when he's dancing with other people?

_Seriously Tony_, he tells himself,_ stop thinking about other men's junk._

_o_

By the time they're finished, how revealing anyone's tights are is the last thing on Tony's mind.

He works out. He runs every day. He lifts four times a week. He practices almost daily. So why the hell is he more out of breath than the scrawny little dancer? Why do his legs hurt _so fucking much_?

There's definitely something wrong with this. Maybe he's been getting a little lax with his workouts. Time to redouble his effort. Maybe add a mile to his daily run. Or two.

Loki doesn't seem offended by Tony's pathetic panting, though. He just leans casually against the bar screwed onto the mirrored wall and nods. "Not bad, Stark. You need to work on your flexibility, but that's easy enough. We'll add some extra stretches, since I'm sure you wouldn't be enthused at the idea of adding yoga to your daily workout."

Tony blinks at ? That may be the strangest suggestion he's ever heard. Isn't yoga for teenage girls and hippies? Then again, right up until an hour ago, he thought roughly the same of ballet... He just nods at the suggestion. "Stretching. Right. And… I did say to call me Tony, right?"

"You did. Stark." Loki smiles at him, baring two rows of perfect pearly white teeth in a gesture that seems more threatening than friendly.

Not that Tony is threatened. He just frowns at that for a moment, nonplussed. Everything Loki does is an enigma. Tony isn't used to people being anything but charmed by him. Tony is good at people, dammit! He is a fucking delight. Why isn't Loki charmed?

Loki seems completely uninterested in Tony's inner turmoil. "So, to recap, Thursday at seven. By then you'll be prepared to properly begin, right?"

"Um," Tony scratches the back of his neck, "I don't think I can get everything by then." He's totally going to have to ask Pepper to procure all this dance stuff. There's no way he can size himself for a thong without dissolving into a useless pile of laughter and/or shame, especially not in two days. "But I'll definitely be ready by next Tuesday. Anything I should be working on in the meantime?"

Loki's eyebrows go up, his expression mildly surprised. "Yes, if you're willing."

If he's willing...? "Do you have any idea how much time I spend working out? It's like... my job." Tony hopes his little eyeroll gets missed, but he's reasonably sure Loki sees everything _ever_. Seriously though, he's a professional football player. What does Loki think he does?

A smirk crosses Loki's arrogant mouth as he nods. "Alright." He drops down to the floor, and leans out into a deep stretch. Dude is _flexible_. "This. You need to loosen your legs up a bit, or you're going to hurt yourself."

"Right. Legs." Tony wonders, not for the first time this evening, what it's going to be like to wear a thong and do all of those crazy stretches and twists.

What the hell has he gotten himself into?

o o o

Next week, as promised, Tony shows up properly attired. Not that anyone can tell just from seeing him, since he's wearing normal clothes over the ridiculous 'uniform'.

The 'dance belt' turned out to be surprisingly comfortable, once he got used to the feeling of a stripe of elastic digging into his butt crack. It offers a lot more support than he originally thought it would. The slippers are... very weird. When he's wearing them, it feels distinctly like he's wearing socks, except they stick to the floor more. He can live with that.

The tights, on the other hand...

"You must pull them further up," Loki says for the nth time.

Tony wrinkles his nose. Yeah, he _knows _he should pull them up high enough to practically give himself a wedgie, since a) the internet said to and b) he can _see_ demonstrated on Loki exactly how far up he should be wearing them. But while Loki's ass looks like it's sculpted from marble, his own... Well, it jiggles. Also, when he wears tights under his football uniform, they are loose around the crotch and ass, and no one can see anything anyway, since it's all covered by the uniform pants.

Right now, his butt crack is the last bastion of modesty he has left. He doesn't relish the idea of actually leaving nothing to the imagination. It doesn't help that he's wearing a thong with a guy in the room, and the guy knows he's wearing a thong, and Tony knows that he knows, and he knows that Tony knows—gah.

It's an eternal loop of shame.

Loki sighs and shakes his head. "I don't understand. You shower and change in front of your teammates. All of you sweaty and naked, together in one room," he smirks slightly, perfectly cognizant of just how bad that sounds, "and then you can't bring yourself to wear tights properly?"

"It's different," Tony mumbles, because it is. He can't explain _how_, but it's different. Maybe it's that the more men in it together, all tacitly agreeing to pretend it isn't happening, the less shameful it feels, and with Loki—with Loki staring at him all the time so he can correct his pose if Tony's knee is a hair out of place—the shame hits critical mass. "I know they aren't looking at me."

Humming, Loki crosses his arms and tilts his head slightly to the side. "Interesting. You get stage fright here, when it's only a little old sissy watching you, and not when you go out in that _ridiculous_ costume in front of millions of viewers every Sunday?"

"It's not a 'ridiculous costume'," Tony defends hotly, eyes narrowing. "At least it leaves _something_ to the imagination, unlike _that_." He gestures at Loki's legs. He can even see the gap between Loki's thighs, for fuck's sake.

Loki's eyes narrow too, and his upper lip curls. Disdain is a surprisingly ugly expression on him. "Why is your uniform any more special than mine?"

Point. Tony looks down at his slippered feet and blows out air noisily. "Fine." He unrolls the waist of the tights, tugs the back firmly up so that it wedges nice and good up his ass crack, and then rolls the waistband back around the elastic belt. "Happy now?" he demands, his neck burning. God, he feels _naked_.

But Loki doesn't smirk in triumph, unexpectedly; he merely nods. "Ecstatic," he deadpans, like all along he expected Tony to fall to his goading. "Now grab the bar, we're going to repeat the exercise you botched earlier."

Tony puts his hand on the bar and gets ready for another leg-melting routine.

o o o

Ballet training, Tony quickly learns, is nothing like any training he's ever done before.

For one, it's so _slow_. So slow it actually makes his muscles burn more than cardio. Seriously, the bar exercises feel like he's doing pilates standing up. He starts yawning in the middle of class sometimes, despite the heat and sweat, and the gentle music Loki puts on doesn't help at all.

At first he thinks Loki's just being considerate on the newbie, and that later the pace will pick up, but he soon discovers he's wrong.

Not on the 'Loki being lenient' front, though. That one, he called true.

Ballet is _hard._ A lot harder than he suspected it would be from the first two classes. Even when Tony felt Loki was correcting Tony for every little thing... Well, turns out there is a reason for skin-tight clothing, and that is so he can't hide _anything_.

Apparently, there are a _lot_ of little things to watch. From the position of his elbows in relation to his wrists, to how tense or how lax he's holding any particular muscle, to whether or not he lifts his hip or bends his back or tucks his stomach or doesn't sync his hand movement with the big toe on his right foot...

It's a nightmare.

Like, whenever Loki presents a new move they spend _easily_ fifteen minutes on it, with Loki making him repeat it over and over and over while correcting the tiniest mistakes and Tony wondering, every single time, why the _fuck_ he thought dancing ballet would be a good idea. And when Tony thinks he finally masters it... it turns out that _that_ was just the version for the first feet position, and he has to learn the versions for positions second through fifth.

And the worst thing? Is that Loki makes it look so easy. So _effortless,_ even. When he demonstrates the proper way to do it, Tony can't focus on whether he's lifting his hip or coordinating his movements or whatever—it just looks like it literally couldn't be done any other way. Now he understands why Loki has limp wrists, or how he could possibly have such a straight back, or why he walks... like he walks.

Soon, Loki gives up on calling the names of the moves in French. Oh, sure, he tells Tony the proper name when he presents them for the first time, but since each has a like _a million_ variations, Tony starts losing track, especially when Loki calls them out at random like he's quizzing him. After the fifth time in that Tony asks "Er, which one was [insert botched French pronunciation]again?" Loki just pinches his nose, sighs dramatically, and dispenses with the fancy stuff.

About ten lessons in, Tony finds that he no longer minds the slow, moderate pace. Somedays it's very much like a spa, except the part where his legs feel like jell-o afterwards.

Mind you, it may also be that Loki's stopped humming noncommittally whenever Tony says something (he's a talker, he can't help it, silence makes him uncomfortable) and started answering him. Sometimes short puff of laughter, followed by a shake of his head, sometimes actual words.

Sometimes, when he's in a good mood, he even starts the conversation.

One day, he says something about how Tony's ass is taking form nicely, in a purr so approving that Tony freezes and stares at him bug-eyed, wondering if he's—dreading the possibility that he might be—flirting. Loki holds his gaze with a perfectly straight face for maybe five seconds, before dissolving into chuckles that turn into guffaws when Tony starts laughing with him.

And once he knows that Tony won't take offense at his sometimes rude humor, it's like the dam holding back all of Loki's sly wit breaks. He doesn't joke often, but when he does, he's stupendously sarcastic, and he can imitate Thor like nothing Tony has ever seen before. He loves puns and plays on words, and though he still lets Tony carry ninety percent of the conversation, whenever he shares his observations he makes Tony lose his balance laughing.

So, ballet is hard, but ballet with Loki is pretty awesome, and Tony starts looking forward to the classes.

o o o

Tony has been training since before he hit puberty, so he knows how long it takes for a new exercise routine to start showing any results. It takes so long that you start to wonder why you started doing it at all, and by the time it comes through with what you want, you wonder if it's just working because it always worked all along.

So the last thing he was expecting was his training with Loki to save his ass after less than two months of work.

When he goes down hard on his right leg in the middle of a game, he just _knows _that's an injury. He feels all of his weight shift into the leg. He feels the leg slip out from under him, aided by his own weight as well as two hundred pounds of defensive back. He lands on it, already thinking _Oh, this is going to hurt_—

The expected pain doesn't come.

The opposing player pulls away from him quickly, fully aware that it was a bad tackle.

Tony vaguely hears the penalty being called.

Coach rushes over.

The pain should be rushing in any moment now.

He stretches his legs a bit before moving, though, and realizes that instead of tearing something when he came down on the leg… the muscles just stretched in a way they wouldn't have a month and a half earlier. Huh.

Ballet to the rescue? Did Loki's training just save Tony's ass, seriously?

Coach kneels down next to him looking worried. "Is everything alright, Tony? You moved it. How much pain?"

Tony gives his most brilliant for-the-cameras smile and replies,"None, Coach. It's all good." He moves to get up and, of course, his leg reminds him that while he isn't seriously injured, he also isn't just fine. "Okay, maybe not _all_ good. But good. I just need to walk it off."

A cheer goes through the crowd as Coach helps Tony to the sidelines, and he's once again reminded why he loves football. Unlike in some professional sports, he honestly thinks the crowd is happier that he's alright than they would be if he were seriously injured.

The drive goes on without him, and of course, they don't manage to score, but he's right back in the game the next quarter.

He makes a mental note to thank Loki.

o

Not too many people take notice of the incident. It's not unusual for a wide receiver to fake an injury for the duration of a play in an attempt to draw a flag, after all; it doesn't matter that Tony never does it. No really, he doesn't.

After the game, though, Thor drags him down to see Natasha. They force him to sit through an examination, both carefully measuring his responses to having the leg flexed.

"Have you been taking painkillers for anything?" Natasha asks in her scary-professional tone.

Tony scowls at them. "No! I'm telling you, I'm fine. It barely hurts at all."

Thor, leaning against the back wall, actually looks a little worried. "You didn't see it from the sidelines, Tony. It looked bad. I was sure you were hurt."

Say something? Don't say something? Tony is at a loss. If he mentioned his visits with Loki, would Thor be pleased or annoyed? He really doesn't want to piss Coach off. Head coach or not, Thor could make his life miserable if he really wanted it.

"Well, um… I, uh. May have been better prepared to take a fall like that than I used to be." He swallows hard, his eyes refusing to meet Thor's. Why do those two make him so damned nervous? Natasha should be the one who really scares him. Her, and her ability to take him out of the game if she deems him too injured to play.

She just shrugs, though. "I'm not feeling anything out of place here. His range is actually better than normal, and he doesn't seem to be in any pain." With that, she leaves them alone so she can see to the others.

Tony watches her go, thinking,_ Don't leave me alone with Coach! _He flinches preemptively.

"Better prepared than you used to be?" Thor asks, his head cocked to one side curiously. He and his brother look absolutely nothing alike, but mannerisms like that prove that they were at least raised together. The suspicious raised eyebrow helps, too.

Tony swallows again. Now or never. "I, um… I've kind of been doing some practice off the field."

In standard Thor style, he just stands there looking at Tony, waiting for elucidation.

"So, uh, after your brother—you, um, you remember when he came to have lunch with you?" Tony knows he's acting like a nitwit. He's not entirely sure why, but he also can't seem to stop it. "I kind of went to talk to him afterward. Well, a couple of days later. And then, you know, one thing led to another and…"

"Oh, god," Thor breathes, aghast, "are you sleeping with my brother?"

Tony's jaw drops at that non-sequitur. "Wha—what? No!" He blinks at Thor. "No. He's—" his voice lowers to a whisper, "—teaching me ballet." Which is a million times more likely than he and Loki _fucking_, for fuck's sake.

"Oh," Coach says slowly, the light finally turning on. "I see. You _can_ learn, after all." He smiles privately, looking oddly pleased with himself.

"You know, that's what he said," Tony quips weakly, still reeling, because what the actual fuck.

Coach laughs and slaps Tony on the back.

o

Later, when he's alone in his house, practicing the stretches Loki assigned, Tony can't stop thinking about Thor's horrified exclamation.

Because Tony is 100% straight. Has been so since before puberty, back when he discovered that cooties were made up and girls were actually rather nice, especially when you made them laugh.

So how on Earth did Coach jump to _that_ conclusion? What about Tony comes across as, as _gay?_

He doesn't flop his hands about when he talks. His voice is perfectly manly. He doesn't think much about what he wears—he doesn't even buy his own clothes, he pays Pepper to do it. Fuck, he's a professional football player—you can hardly get straighter than that.

The only possible explanation is that _Loki_ is so gay, in his brother's estimation, that he can bend even straightest man to his... _gay wiles _or something.

Which is an uncomfortable thought. Tony has been studiously avoiding thinking about Loki's sexuality, especially while being in the same room with him while they're both wearing thongs and Loki's telling him to spread his legs a little wider. The notion that Loki might have been staring at his ass for reasons other than perfecting Tony's poses makes him shiver.

On the other hand, being eye-candy isn't exactly new to him. Okay, the part where it's a _dude_ he's being eye-candy for is new, but lots of women hit on him that he doesn't find in the least attractive, so why should a man's _looking _bother him? Especially a man who is putting aside time to teach him how to evade and/or survive tackles? Being handsome in his general direction is the least Tony can do for him.

So long as Loki does his checking out discreetly, Tony decides, he's harmless. Now, if he decides to get vocal—or worse, _hands-on_—that's another thing entirely. He will burn that bridge if he gets to it.

Decision made, Tony relaxes and finishes his stretches.

o o o

The next session with Loki starts off a bit awkwardly, as Tony keeps trying to catch him looking at his ass. But since it doesn't happen, not even once, Tony soon relaxes into the routine.

They go at it extra hard that day, and by the time they are seguing into the cooldown stretches, Tony is basically a quivering mess who can't feel his legs. (This is a good thing. If Tony could feel them, he'd be in a world of pain.)

Loki helps him stretch by pushing his torso down over his legs, first this way, then the other, then down the middle. Tony's flexibility has improved so much that he can reach his toes with his_ wrists_ when his legs are stretched out in front of him.

"This is awesome," he wheezes, wiggling his fingers in the air.

Loki's huff of laughter is warm on the back of his neck. "Small minds. So easily impressed," he murmurs, before letting up. "How are you feeling?"

Tony rolls his neck. How does one say 'fucked out' politely? Because that's exactly how he feels right now: satisfied and pliant and ready to fall asleep any moment now. "Thirsty," he says instead.

Rolling his eyes, Loki makes his way to the corner where they dropped their stuff earlier and comes back with Tony's water bottle. "There you go, you big baby," he sighs, dropping down gracefully—how else?—in front of him and holding the bottle out for him.

Sticking his tongue out at him, Tony grabs it and takes a long swig. _Mm, tastes like plastic._ He still manages to drain half of it before the need for air makes him stop. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. "Thanks."

Loki is watching him silently, his lips curled slightly into a small smile. "No problem. By the way," one of his feet, looking surprisingly delicate in the slipper despite how big it is, taps the floor nervously, "Thor asked me about your training."

"Uh, huh?" Tony manages, not knowing why Loki brought this up. Does he want to know why Tony told him?

The tapping stops as Loki crosses his legs. "You only told him recently, I take it?"

Tony shrugs. "Yeah. Came out last game when I got tackled and everyone thought I'd pulled a muscle." He grins, remembering the lack of pain. "I didn't, but only thanks to your stretches."

Loki hums. "You'd been keeping it a secret, before?" he asks, voice oddly flat.

Tony chuckles. "What, you thought I'd go around telling everyone I'm taking ballet in my free time?" Just picturing Clint's comments makes him feel like he swallowed cold worms.

_Loki's gayness rubbed off on Stark! It's contagious! Next thing you know, we'll be dyeing our uniforms pink and painting each other's nails._

Yeah, no. He'd rather avoid that.

"I thought," Loki says slowly, "that you might tell your teammates and coach, at least, to keep them informed of your physical state."

Tony clicks his tongue, looking away. "Why, so they can avoid me in the locker room?" He shrugs again. "You have no idea just how much they'd freak out if they found out I'm doing ballet. Hell," he adds, laughing mirthlessly, "Coach has already accused me of sleeping with you."

Loki doesn't say anything at first, and Tony doesn't dare look at him, not sure what he'll find. He's scared it might be disappointment, or worse, lust. Hell, he just handed Loki the best cue in the world (short of actually asking) to confess his undying attraction for Tony.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, Loki murmurs, "I see," and gets to his feet. He pads smoothly over to their corner and starts pulling his jeans on over his tights. "I'll see you next week," he says, picking up the sweater and sneakers and walking out in his flats.

Tony waves at him from his spot on the floor. "Bye!" he grins, glad they cleared the air. He can't wait until next week.

o o o

As it turns out, Tony is not as good at reading social cues as he thinks he is.

Which is why, when he shows up two days later, he's totally not expecting what he finds.

Loki runs him through the usual routine of preliminary stretching followed by the same old leg-strengthening movement-polishing workout, one or two new things, and more stretching. It's so familiar at this point that Tony could probably do it on autopilot if he wanted to.

Loki certainly appears to be.

He's obviously there, teaching him, but somehow… not. Tony can't quite put his finger on what's bothering him until half an hour in, when he messes up a pose for the third time and, instead of the light-hearted teasing he's expecting, Loki merely blinks and tells him to try again.

And again. And again.

No sly comments regarding Tony's (non-existent, thank you!) fluffy midsection. No quirk of his lips as Tony loses his balance during a transition and falls flat on his ass. No dancing eyes when Tony makes a particularly bad pun.

Loki is serious, and quiet, and completely professional, and it's like they don't know each other at all._ Stark_ has become_ Mr. Stark_, and everything else has just disappeared.

The silence in the practice room is horrible. Tony hasn't ever been a fan of quiet. When it's awkward quiet, it's even worse.

And the worst thing? Tony has _no idea what is happening_.

Is Loki having a bad day? Week? Did his cat die recently? Is he going through a rough patch with his boyfriend? Hell, is the dance studio undergoing a surprise audit?

Loki may as well have been carved from wood, for all he's sharing. And it's not that Tony isn't trying to draw him out, because he is. Actively. He chats about the last game, or a maneuver that he's struggling with, or even the goddamned weather—he even _asks about Loki's feelings_, which is something he never does for anyone, but Loki's just not biting.

As the lesson comes to an awkwardly silent end, sooner than usual (that is, one hour exactly since they began, except they usually stay five or ten minutes longer), Tony starts thinking that Loki's problem, whatever it is, must be with _him_.

In that case, fuck him. Tony's been nothing but nice and polite to him. Fuck, he's been wearing a thong and pants that give him wedgies twice a week for months just because Loki said to! He's been on his best behavior, followed Loki's instructions to the best of his ability, even practiced at home. If Loki has a problem with him, he should fucking tell him instead of expecting him to read his mind! God, Loki is _such_ a woman!

"Mr. Stark?" Loki asks him in that calm, patient, 'teacher' tone of voice that he's adopted. "Is everything quite alright?"

Tony looks up to discover Loki has already finished pulling on his street clothes over his practice ones. "Sure. Peachy." He shrugs and lets go of the ballet flat he crumpled while he was thinking. Stupid dainty piece of shit.

Winding a silk scarf around his neck, Loki asks, "Next week?" in a deliberately light tone, not looking at him..

Tony narrows his eyes. Loki's never _asked_ before; it's always been 'See you next week', a statement, like it was a given that Tony would come back for more. Asking means... what does it mean? Is he offering Tony an out, hoping he'll take it? 'Next week, if we must'? He wants to stop teaching Tony, but is too much of a coward to actually man up and say it to his face. Why, is he afraid Tony will run to Thor or something?

Fuck if Tony's quitting now, when the training is finally coming through for him.

Fuck if he's gonna give Loki the satisfaction. Asshole.

"Sure thing," Tony replies, giving Loki his best winning smile.

o

When Tony gets home, the first thing he does is ditch the stupid 'dance belt' and take a shower. He's so angry about Loki's sudden and inexplicable snit that he squeezes the shampoo bottle too hard, and then he has to gather up the shampoo from the tiled walls.

Afterwards, he plops down in front of the TV with a nutritionally-balanced pre-prepared dinner, wearing only his towel, and starts up his Playstation.

Killing zombies is just what the doctor ordered.

He eats as he plays, shovelling food into his mouth during loading screens or cut scenes to avoid thinking. Except thoughts of Loki are persistent, and he suddenly finds himself remembering Loki's bland, impersonal smile and his beige documentary-narrator voice.

Fuming again, he chews harder—and bites his tongue.

Fuck everything.

The zombies really stand no chance.

o

Later, when he's in bed and staring at the dark ceiling because he can't sleep, the reason for Loki's tepidness finally makes itself clear.

Tony admitted out loud that he is ashamed of doing ballet. That Loki and his classes, the ones he puts time aside for just because Tony asked, are basically his dirty little secret. Hell, he didn't just admit it, he _laughed _about it. Like the thought of telling anyone he's doing something not strictly 'manly' was not just absurd, but unthinkable.

He feels like kicking himself, especially because he _was_—and still is—keeping it secret out of shame. He can't even claim he wanted to surprise his teammates, or that he didn't want them crowding Loki's schedule asking to be taught too, because that would be a complete lie.

Yes, he wanted to be the absolute best on the field, to overcome an impossible tackle like magic, and leave everyone speechless. Yes, he wanted it to be his signature. But the main reason he did say anything was that he was—is—scared of being branded a fairy by that nitwit Clint Barton and his dumb friends.

And Loki knows that. He probably worked it out the second he learned of Tony's secrecy, and he still gave Tony a chance to explain.

A chance that Tony blew olympically.

And now, Loki is just _done_ with Tony. Bye bye, jokes. So long, complicit smiles. Farewell, emotional investment. The only reason Loki hasn't dropped him like a hot potato is probably that he's keeping his word. And who knows how long that will last?

Tony groans pitifully, feeling like a total jerk.

He should be used to this. He's only ever had few friends, and they didn't last long either. Well, there's Pepper, whom he hired back when he first became a pro, but then again he pays her, so of course she sticks around. A hundred girls have come and gone in his 'dating' life, leaving no deeper mark on it than lipstick prints. He has his team, who tolerate his existence because he's damned good at what he does. Mostly. Not Rogers, though; that guy never gave him the time of day off the field

And for a few months he had Loki, who didn't feel like a teacher at all when it was just the two of them. He felt like... a friend.

Tony punches his pillow. Jesus Christ. He had a real friend. And he fucked it up, because that's what he does. Pepper always says he's his own worst enemy. He's just once again proving it true. What should he do now? What _can_ he do? Apologize? Let it go? Write him off as yet another person who gave up on waiting for Tony Stark to start behaving like a human being, get him a laminated card and a welcome-to-the-club basket?

...Get a new ballet teacher?

But he_ likes _Loki, damnit. He's fun, especially when he gets into one of his dry-humor moods. He seems—_seemed, _at least,genuinely interested in Tony's explanations of complicated plays, never getting that glazed-eyed look like most people Tony talks strategy at. And hell, you can't spend hours with a guy with both of you dressed in thongs and glorified pantyhose without forming a bond.

_Dammit, Tony,_ he admonished himself, hitting his forehead with the heel of his hand. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ How could he possibly have missed it? He put the opinion of a bunch of homophobic assholes over someone who actually gave a damn about him.

An apology isn't going to cut it. He can say he's sorry all he wants, provided Loki is willing to listen, but it doesn't change what he did. The damage is done. He hid Loki. He was_ ashamed _of Loki.

And of ballet.

Tony sits up in his bed with a sharp intake of breath. He's just had the craziest idea ever—and it might just work, if he plays it right.

Grinning, he palms his nightstand for his cell phone and calls Pepper.

o o o

It doesn't come as any surprise at all when Clint is the first one to say something.

Tony's never been particularly lucky, and if there's a bad way for something good to happen, the universe will find it for him.

Practice was surprisingly quiet, probably because of a loss the previous Sunday. Coach has been breathing down their necks about a lack of 'group unity', like making everyone uncomfortable is going to help with that.

They're all in the locker room now. Tony has finished showering and is in the process of changing into his street clothes.

Clint's hand comes down on his shoulder just after his t-shirt settles over his back. It's a little like he didn't want to touch Tony without a layer of fabric between them. "So, Stark, I hear you've gone queer on us."

Fortunately, Tony is prepared for this. Clint isn't the person he did this for, but he did it knowing that Clint would find out. That was the point, after all. He had to make sure there was no backing down.

Tony stretches his back casually and turns to raise an eyebrow at his obnoxious teammate. "Sorry, Barton, you're not my type."

Some defensive lineman whose name Tony can't remember (it's really convenient that they usually wear shirts with their names on them—defensive linemen all look the same to Tony) chuckles at them. "Please, Barton, you know Tony's as straight as straight comes."

Tony shrugs as casually as he can manage. _You don't care, remember?_ he tells himself. "Eh. Clint seems pretty constantly interested in who we all want to date, so whatever makes him happy, man."

"Oh, come on, Stark." Clint gives a sly grin and pulls a copy of Sports Illustrated from under his belongings. "You didn't think we were going to find out?"

"That I did an interview for SI?" Tony asks, using his best fake nonchalant tone. He's actually been practicing it just for this moment. "They asked. I said yes. Is that a problem?"

Clint rolls his eyes, looking as though Tony is deliberately ruining his fun.

Actually, that's true. Tony _is_ deliberately trying to ruin his fun. The thought makes him grin.

"Oh come on, Stark, seriously?" Barton stands, flipping the magazine open. He starts reading out loud. "'Of course I spend a lot of time working out, it's sort of my job. I like doing it, though. In my free time, in fact,_ I've taken up ballet.'_"

The locker room has gone quiet, everyone listening.

_This is is,_ Tony thinks to himself. _This is where it's either okay, or my career is over_. Okay, well maybe not his career. But it will be much harder to deal with his teammates if they have a problem with this. He's made his choice, though, and this time he doesn't feel at all bad about it. This time he knows he's on the side of the person who actually matters to him. It sort of reminds him of Coach's attitude on that first day he met Loki. He knows he's right.

The next voice Tony hears is the last one he expected.

"When did you take up ballet, Tony?" Steve asks in his usual quiet, serious tone.

"Oh, you know, September or so," Tony says dismissively. "When Thor's baby bro whipped our asses on the field all by himself, remember?" he laughs, and it's not even forced. "I still suck pretty bad."

"Everyone starts somewhere." Rogers smiles at him—Steven Rogers!—and comes walking over as he pulls his leather jacket on over his white button down. (Seriously, could the guy be any more old-fashioned?) "I don't know much about ballet, but if it's what's been improving your game so much this season, maybe I should learn. You want to get a burger?"

Tony blinks. "Um, sure Steve."

Frowning, Clint sizes the two of them up. "So you guys are going dancing?"

Steve gives him the tight, irritated smile he usually reserves for Tony. "Well, Clint, we can all use a little extra help. Tony's on his way to a record season." He rests his hand on Tony's shoulder. "Are you?"

Clint glances at Tony and then looks away fast. "Whatever works, I guess." He shrugs one shoulder.

And just like that, everything is okay.

o o o

Steve joins Tony in his next session with Loki, having dragged the when and where from him during their lunch.

Well, 'dragged' may not be the right word... Tony, high on finally having something in common with his quarterback, volunteered the information. Something he is currently regretting because he conveniently forgot all about the ballet clothes at the moment, and now he's wearing tights jammed up his ass—and a thong, how could he forget—while Steve tries not to stare.

Talk about awkward.

"And Loki's really strict about proper attire," he's telling (warning) Steve, with the airs of someone who's been studying ballet forever. "So if you're coming, you need to make sure you get everything by—" He notices the door opening. "Oh, hi, Loki!"

Loki looks up from his phone and freezes in the doorway, seeing them. His eyes fly from Tony to Steve and then back to Tony. He blinks slowly, like Steve is a hallucination. "I wasn't aware we were to have an audience today, Stark," he comments.

_Stark_.

Tony notices the slip and feels a huge weight lift off his shoulders. "Yeah, well, he invited himself. It's okay, right?"

Steve approaches Loki with his hand extended. "Steve Rogers, sir. I'm the Avengers' quarterback." Like there's anyone in the state who wouldn't recognize Steve Rogers, all American football hero.

Bemused, Loki shakes his hand. "I... see." He looks to Tony for explanations, clearly nonplussed.

Tony finds himself flushing. "He, uh, found out about me taking classes." _From a magazine that did a feature on me,_ he wants to say_, who I told everything so you wouldn't think I am ashamed of you._ He rubs at his nose, ducking his head slightly. "And wanted to come see what it was like." He shrugs. "You know how football players are once they get something into their heads."

Steve, ever the hero, comes to the rescue. "His game has been so much better lately, and we didn't know why. We had to find out from Sports Illustrated."

Loki's eyes are still boring holes into Tony. His face is completely unreadable, and he's still holding his phone, forgotten, in midair.

Even though he feels like hiding behind Steve, Tony stands his ground. "Gave them an interview. I can bring you a copy, next class?" _I told everyone and their mother,_ he thinks at Loki, willing him to just understand without Tony having to spell it out in front of Steve.

Loki opens his mouth in a little O of understanding, and the tension evaporates. Even though he's still watching Tony, now he's doing it through his eyelashes. "Yeah," he says, a tiny smile on his lips. "I think it will be illuminating."

Feeling his cheeks heating up, Tony clears his throat and angles himself towards the empty classroom. "I've been telling Steve about the tights," he blurts out, desperate to change the subject. This is why he doesn't do emotions, fuck. He can't handle them.

"He made sure I knew how, uh, important it is to be dressed properly," Rogers supplies. "I'll make sure to be ready for next class."

Loki claps him on the back as he makes his way towards their corner. "Good. You do that." He quickly strips off his street clothes, dumping them into a pile next to Tony's, then pulls his hair up into a ponytail and makes his way to the middle of the room. "Come here, Steve. Stark and I will demonstrate the warm-up stretches."

_Steve?_

Tony narrows his eyes. How come Steve gets to be on first-name basis while Tony gets to be _Stark_?

But Loki is already getting into position, and Tony hurries to his spot.

Oh, well, he'll complain later.

o o o

Classes with Steve turn out to be quite the stroke to Tony's ego. He's been at ballet only a few months, but it's enough to make him look impressive compared to what Steve can do.

Apparently Steve tells the Center, Sam Wilson, that he's taken up ballet as well, because two classes later he joins too.

Another week, and Bruce is there too. It turns out he actually likes ballet ("It's very peaceful") and, since he does a lot of yoga, he's very flexible for such a big guy.

Tony's teammates start joining in ones or twos, some because they are curious, others because they don't want to be left behind, a few out of sheer peer pressure. They don't wear the tights or the dance belt or even the proper slippers out of either shame or not caring a whole lot, and it drives Tony up the wall that Loki doesn't correct them.

He gets made fun of for wearing them. Being one of the four guys in tights doesn't bother too much him at first, but as more people join who wear sweatpants, he starts getting self-conscious. One day he just shows up in sweatpants, and Loki doesn't say anything.

In fact, Loki doesn't even notice. His attention is too divided as he attempts to whip 25 amateurs into some semblance of shape. So divided, in fact, that he pays Tony extra little of it since he already knows the basics, and Tony ends up having to watch himself in the mirrors to catch mistakes. It sucks.

The room gets so noisy with murmur and echo that it's impossible to concentrate. Tony misses the silence. He misses the peace. Hell, he misses the tights—the sweatpants catch on his skin and limit his movements. Most of all, though, he misses having Loki's exclusive attention. He was _Tony's_ friend first, dammit, and now these, these _casuals_ are hoarding him.

The whole point of telling the world he does ballet was to have Loki back. Well, it backfired.

It backfired _so much._

Sure, now Loki doesn't act like he's a wooden doll anymore, but he's so busy running from student to student that he can't spare a second to hear the joke Tony wants to tell.

He has to do something about this. But what?

o o o

Soon, so many of Tony's teammates have joined the class that Loki decides enough is enough.

It starts with one of the defense guys—Tony thinks his name is Rumlow—completely botching a _rond de jambe _by raising his hip and swaying his arm in a way that gives him obviously feminine airs. "Look guys," he coos, repeating the gesture, "I'm a ballerina!"

The peanut gallery laughs loudly.

Tony's eyes immediately fly to Loki, who is not ten feet away, and grimaces.

Loki's head is down, his right hand clenched into a fist near his stomach. His nostrils flare with each breath.

The guys start copying the botched move in a contest of who can make it girlier, elbowing each other and laughing.

Meanwhile, Loki just gets progressively more fed up. He crosses his arms and actually starts tapping his foot, waiting for someone to notice.

_For a guy in tights and a slippers, _Tony thinks, watching him and bracing for the explosion, _he looks pretty commanding._

It takes the chronically-concussed morons five whole minutes to quieten down, by which point Loki's neck is all flushed and steam is practically coming out of his ears.

Tony feels sorry for him. But not as sorry as he feels for his teammates, despite how they ruined his tuesday and thursday evenings.

"Okay," Loki starts, shaking his head slightly. He opens his mouth as if to lay it on them and then closes it. "No. You know what? I'm done." He makes a sweeping gesture of his hand towards the door. "Class dismissed. And don't bother coming back."

_What? _The bottom dops out of Tony's stomach. No more ballet classes?

Barton, who was one of the last to join, asks the question on everyone's mind. "What?"

"You heard me," Loki says, his voice studiously steady. "I'm done with you lot." He turns on the balls of his feet and starts making his way towards the corner where he leaves his stuff.

Forty pro football players part like the Red Sea, everyone pretty much stunned into silence.

"But why?" asks Bruce, sounding about as lost as Tony feels.

"Because it's a waste of time." His back to the room, Loki slides on his jeans and buttons them. "You people don't pay attention to my instruction. I make time twice a week to teach you as a favor to my brother," he puts his sweater on, "when I could be rehearsing with my company, or teaching someone who will bother to wear the proper shoes to class instead of ruining my studio floors."

Tony looks down at this. It's true, he notices abruptly. The usually pristine, gleaming hardwood is dusty and smudged with shoe prints. Everyone aside from Loki is wearing sneakers or some variety of sports shoe, including him.

Fuck. How had things gotten so out of control?

"One gets tired of putting time and effort into people who don't," Loki continues, sitting down and exchanging his slippers for ratty Converse. "I bet that I could count those of you who practice the exercises at home in one hand."

Tony rubs the back of his neck. He never stopped practicing ballet in his free time, so he knows the lecture is not directed at him. Still, he feels as chastised as any of the dunderheads around him. _I should have said something_, he thinks guiltily.

Loki stands up and winds his scarf around his neck, not looking at any of them. "Contrary to what you may think, ballet is a real discipline, one that needs time and dedication to get good at." He raises his head and glares around the room. "It's _not_ a novelty toy. It's _not_ something you do to pass the time, or because all your little friends are doing it." Stuffing his slippers into his messenger bag, he slings it onto one shoulder. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a life, and I refuse to put it aside for people who don't take me seriously."

Tony watches open-mouthed and speechless as Loki makes his way to the exit. He wants to stop him, say _something_, but he can't. He's rooted to the spot, racking his brains for options.

The one who saves the day is Steve.

"Hey, Loki, wait!" he says suddenly, pushing his way past the crowd and following him.

Loki stops and turns towards him, tucking his hair back behind an ear. "Yes, Steve?"

"Are you free—"

Tony's brain short-circuits for a second there, wondering if Steve is going to ask Loki out.

And then Rogers continues, "—Tuesday mornings? We can make this part of the regular team practices."

Murmurs starts in the crowd, but Tony's too focused on Loki's response to gauge if they are positive or negative.

Eyes narrowing, Loki tilts his head. "And why, pray tell, would I do that to myself?"

Because, right, Steve just asked Loki to voluntarily show up and teach them _ballet _in a stadium, a testosterone-charged and traditionally homophobic environment.

"Because we need it," Steve says simply. "It could give us the edge we need to win out there on the field. And if it's part of practice at the field, then we _have _to obey you, and we won't be at your studio, messing it up." He smiles lopsidedly. "Also, you get back your free afternoons."

"Once a week, huh," Loki murmurs to himself. His hair has come free again, and he re-tucks its behind his ear, the gesture making him look a little vulnerable.

_Say yes,_ _say yes_, Tony prays, his hands in fists at his sides. _Please say yes._

After a moment of deliberation, Loki nods. "I'll consider it."

Rogers grins. "That's all we can ask."

Loki glances around the room with tired eyes, sighs disappointedly, and leaves.

o

Tony stands in place, absently watching his teammates pack up and start filing out of the dance room.

Steve saved their bacon, appeasing Loki with his mysterious quarterback leadership skills and conning him into continuing teaching them, but Tony wants more. For starters, once a week is not enough for him. And he wants ballet classes like they were before he fucked everything up.

He's just wondering if he should ask Loki, or if Loki will send him packing if he even dares to ask.

"Tony," Bruce says from his left, "are you coming?"

"Uh, sure," Tony says at once. He follows Bruce and Sam out of the room quietly, lost in thought. When they walk by the front desk, he spots Loki talking to Lisa.

Their eyes meet, and Loki quickly looks away.

Tony watches as he kisses his secretary on the cheek and makes for the door, putting his earbuds in, and makes a spur-of-the-moment decision.

"On second thought," he tells Bruce, "go on without me. There's something I have to do." Without waiting for an answer, he takes off running after Loki and catches up to him about two steps from the door. "Hey, uh, Loki," he starts, before realizing Loki probably can't hear him. He taps his shoulder instead.

Turning around, Loki spots him and jerks back in surprise. "Stark," he murmurs, pulling the earbuds out. "Did you need anything?"

_Are you done with me, too? _Tony feels like asking. "Are we still up for Thursday evenings? Just us. No jocks allowed." He attempts a smile, though he's sure Loki can hear his heartbeat, it's so loud.

Loki's eyes do something weird. They look to the left, then upward, then down, and his cheeks tinge faintly pink. "Just us?" he repeats, almost to himself. His fingers play with one end of his scarf, twirling it and untwirling it.

"Yeah," Tony says, hoping against hope that Loki will bite. "I'll buy you coffee," he bargains, to sweeten the pot.

Loki freezes, his mouth slightly parted. He looks Tony in the eyes for a moment, and then shakes his head as if to clear it. "Fine," he says at last, a tiny smile playing on his thin lips. "But at an actual coffee shop. None of that Starbucks swill."

Tony beams at him. "Awesome. Thursdays at eight okay with you still? And coffee whenever."

Loki's playing with his scarf again as he replies. "Seven works better. Don't forget your tights, Stark."

Tony stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Wouldn't dream of it." His cheeks hurt but he can't stop smiling.

o o o

On Thursday, Tony steps into the gleaming clean, empty, blessedly _silent_ dance room and inhales deeply. He can practically smell the peace, or maybe it's the fresh pine scent fucking with his nose.

When Loki comes in moments later, hands busy tying his hair into a messy bun, he sends Tony a complicit smile. "Did you bring your tights?" he asks lightly, hands already going to his fly.

Tony averts his eyes automatically, not caring to watch the dude undress. "Who do you think I am?" He imitates Loki, undressing with pride and revealing the tights.

Loki grins at him and two seconds later his grin turns slightly evil. "You know I'm going to make you dance everything you didn't dance the past month." It's not a question.

"What do you think I've been practicing in my house for?" Tony grins cockily, accepting the challenge.

Fifty minutes later, despite Tony's boasts, his knees are giving out on him. He really isn't feeling like a walk to his car, let alone a coffee shop.

As it turns out, Loki doesn't have time for coffee, so they agree to do it the following week

"Before practice," Loki adds with a sly smirk at Tony's wobbly legs.

o o o

There is one problem with this plan and it's the fact that Tony has no idea where to go.

In the modern era, it is surprisingly difficult to find a decent coffee shop that is not Starbucks. It's not that their coffee is great, it's just that nothing else seems to exist anymore. Tony promised, though, and Tony follows through on his promises.

So he spends the next week scouring the area around the ballet studio for a decent coffee shop. It is often disgusting, sometimes amusing, and, just once, quite rewarding.

He finds a decent-looking cafe called "Stars and Scones" on Saturday afternoon, and it's exactly the kind of place that seems right to take Loki. It's a little kitcshy and a lot over-decorated for Tony's tastes, but it's also upscale, classy, and makes amazing coffee. This last part, to Tony, is the point of going to a coffee shop, so it's enough for him.

He texts Loki the location, and asks if they can meet there an hour before practice. Loki's answering text comes back speedily.

_Sure. See you there._

For some reason, by the time Thursday rolls around, Tony is nervous. Maybe it's the fact that they haven't spent much time alone together since his snafu, maybe it's because they haven't spent any time together outside the studio, or maybe it's just that Tony doesn't do this very often. He doesn't make friends, and he certainly doesn't randomly invite people out to coffee when he's not sure if they even like him.

By the time Thursday afternoon arrives Tony has himself so worked up that he actually changes his mind about what to wear at the last minute, like it's a goddamned date or something. The result is that he arrives five minutes late.

Loki is waiting for him. He doesn't look impatient or annoyed.

Tony counts his lucky stars and hopes that it's not just Loki hiding his irritation. He's too skilled at that for Tony's own good.

"Why am I not surprised that you're late?" Loki jibes, clearing up any concern that he's actually angry.

Grinning in response, Tony shrugs. "I dunno, maybe you know me? Besides, you know I'm totally worth a five minute wait."

That actually makes Loki laugh out loud, an unusual feat. "I hope the coffee is worth the wait, Stark. I'm not so sure about you…"

Pretending hurt, Tony sticks out his lower lip like a five year old. This, of course, happens just in time for them to arrive at the counter. Fortunately, Tony is nearly impossible to shame. He turns to the barista and changes his pout into a brilliant smile.

"Can I help you?" The girl asks with a shy smile. She can't be more than eighteen or twenty.

Tony immediately rules her out for real flirting."I'll have a vanilla latte," he says, naming the first sugary coffee drink that comes to mind. "And…" he looks to Loki in askance.

"An Americano." Loki smiles and shakes his head, turning back to look at Tony. "And only you could order than much sugar and dairy right before heading down to the studio, Stark."

Tony's grin widens and he shrugs. "I'm a growing boy, Loki. Besides, I totally need carbs before a workout, and sugar fits the bill."

"Isn't that supposed to be _complex_ carbohydrates?" Loki rolls his eyes, amused.

Tony returns the eye roll. "I guess, if you wanna be picky." He tosses the barista a twenty when she gives them the total — he wasn't listening to how much she said it was.

Loki doesn't even reach for his wallet, which makes Tony strangely happy. No matter how many times he offers to take people out for things, they always seem to assume they need to pay. Loki seems to have taken him at face value. No one ever does that, not even his father.

Tony isn't sure what to make of the barista's inexplicable disappointed look. As he walks away with Loki, he doesn't quite hear what she mumbles to her coworker.

It's a little odd, how things go after that. They pick up their coffee. True to his earlier mocking, Loki doesn't add anything to his drink. Tony can't imagine how he drinks black coffee, but somehow it isn't a surprise. They grab a seat near the back and chat.

The chatting is exactly what Tony expected. There are a few jokes about Tony's performance in the game on Sunday, a few anecdotes about people they both know, and even a few stories from Loki about things happening in his ballet company.

What doesn't happen is the one thing that Tony was expecting: boredom.

Tony has, on odd occasion, gotten coffee with other people. Usually, they make their order and, by the time they get their drinks, he's sick of them. Small talk bores him to tears. He couldn't care less about the weather, or the news, or even politics and religion. He was a little worried that an hour was going to be too long, even considering the time that would be required to order and to walk to the studio and change clothes afterward, but somehow they end up with the opposite problem.

At ten minutes after seven, one of the baristas clears her throat and apologetically tells them that the shop is closing up. Technically, it closed ten minutes earlier, and they're ten minutes late to their appointment.

Loki looks as surprised as Tony is, and they head down to the studio together.

"We'll just stay a little late to make up for it." Loki smiles at him as he says it.

Tony can't help but be exceptionally pleased with himself. He definitely has his friend back. "Well if you want to spend your whole evening in my company, I'm not gonna complain," he throws back, giving Loki his best boyish grin.

Chuckling, Loki nods. "I can think of worse things to spend my evening doing."

In fact, they end up practicing for nearly an hour and a half — until Tony's legs barely hold him up anymore. Loki helps him with his stretches afterward, and laughs good-naturedly at Tony's terrible stamina. Tony takes faux-offense, and the two of them pretend snipe at each other right up until they go their opposite ways at the end of the night.

As he heads off into the evening, Loki smiles back over his shoulder at Tony. "See you next week, Stark."

Tony cups a hand to the side of his mouth and yells, "Count on it!"

Even more than before, Tony can't wait.

o o o

The next Thursday, Tony is running late. He knows he's going to be late by noon, but he keeps holding out hope that Coach will catch up with his schedule. It's never happened before, but Tony keeps right on hoping. By the time they have a short break at three, it's obvious that it isn't going to happen.

So Tony is left with two choices: a) he skips dinner and goes straight to practice with Loki on an empty stomach, or b) he tells Loki he's going to be late and begs forgiveness.

In standard Tony style, he ends up going with option C.

_Practice running late_, he texts Loki. _If I buy you dinner, will you forgive me?_

No more than five minutes later Loki responds. _Depends. Where are we getting dinner?_

_There's an Italian place near the studio, Mario's. One of my faves. Meet you around 7:00?_ He crosses his fingers that the choice will be bribe enough. It really is one of his favorite italian restaurants in the city, and he could really use some pasta. Winter and the stress of the last few regular season games seem to be getting to him, and nothing says comfort like a giant bowl of carbs.

_Sounds excellent. See you there,_ Loki responds immediately this time, obviously having been waiting for Tony's text.

He grins as he types in his own response. _Looking forward to it._

_o_

By the time Tony gets out of practice, he's starting to worry he's going to be even later than he'd planned for. Taking the world's shortest shower and playing a little fast and loose with the speed limit gets him there quicker than usual, though, so he finds himself strolling into Mario's at six twenty-eight.

An amused looking Loki is standing at the front waiting for him. It occurs to Tony that he failed to make a reservation just as Loki says, "It's a good thing for you I assumed you'd forget to call ahead, and did it myself."

Tony's shoulders slump in mock-defeat. "I'm sorry. I suck. In my defense, it's been a long crappy day for which your brother is at least twelve percent at fault." He runs a hand through his hair. "I really need some carbonara right now."

Loki's laugh is well worth the price of admission. "It figures that you have a bad day and go straight for the bacon."

"Doesn't everyone? Also, it's not just bacon. It's pasta too. And cream." Tony is practically salivating over just the thought of it. How Pavlovian of him. "All the best stuff in the world."

"Otherwise known as the Heart Disease special?" Loki asks playfully, and Tony knows he's not going to be in trouble.

The hostess shows them to their seats as they trade barbs about whether vegetable lasagne is actually lasagne at all, Loki insisting that vegetables are intended for something other than the torture of innocent children. The truth comes out when they get to the table, though, and Loki orders a copy of Tony's own pasta.

At Tony's pointed look, he shrugs. "It sounded good. I can always blame you for corrupting my good intentions."

"I have been called a corrupting influence before," Tony grins, leaning in conspiratorially. "Usually it's nothing to do with pasta, though."

Loki gives an ungentlemanly snort. "Liquor, then?"

That brings out the unusually serious part of Tony. "No. I, um... " He pauses. How to say it? Dammit, there's a reason he doesn't have friends. This whole deep meaningful conversation thing sucks. "I don't really drink. I had… issues. With it. In college."

Loki's brows go up at that, but he doesn't ask any questions. "Oh," he says, with none of the pity Tony's used to when the subject comes up. "I didn't know."

And that's it.

Okay, maybe deep meaningful conversations aren't so bad when they're with someone as easy to talk to as Loki.

The whole dinner is that way, and Tony once again pats himself on the back for giving that interview to Sports Illustrated. Having Loki back is the best thing that's happened to him since getting drafted by the Avengers. The whole friendship thing is even better the second time around, what with the coffee and dinner.

By the time they finally make it to the studio, it's way too late to practice, and they're both too full of unhealthy amounts of pasta to be trying any serious exercise routines. They get through their standard stretches, and wind up stretched across the floor talking. Loki jokes that he was worried Tony was going to tip over on Sunday because, at least on television, his head seems to be getting so big that he looks unbalanced. Tony's super witty rejoinder points out how it doesn't count as egotistical if he really is that awesome, and Loki bursts into full-on laughter.

Not once does it feel like Loki is actually accusing Tony of actually being egotistical or stupid. It's a nice change of pace from Tony's everyday interactions with people.

He wonders if that's what friendship is supposed to be about.

o o o

That Sunday is the team's Christmas party. Well, technically, Christmas is a week and a half away, but it's as good as excuse as any for a get-together before the year ends.

Tony arrives at the stadium about forty minutes late, having started the whole get-myself-presentable routine just minutes before the party started. He hadn't originally planned on coming. His weekend so far had _sucked balls—_he hadn't been able to get himself laid Friday night, because apparently he'd misplaced his sex appeal, and he's still frustrated over that—and he hadn't wanted to tempt fate further, but Steve and Bruce, upon not finding him there, had insisted over text messages.

And 'insisted' is putting it politely.

Peer pressure, what can you do but give in, right?

So here Tony is, late to the party and single to boot. Everyone in sight has some form of plus one with them. He's only just stepped into the room, decorated by some entrepreneurial festive person, and he's already spotted Steve's girlfriend talking to Coach's wife, and Bruce giving piggyback rides to one of Sam Wilson's kids while his wife braids the other's hair.

"Hey, man, thought you weren't coming." Clint appears out of nowhere and greets him with a slap on the back. "Welcome to Family Day," he says, gesturing grandiosely around the room.

Right. Of course Clint wouldn't have a girlfriend or a wife either. Tony has always been convinced that the running back was secretly in love with Natasha. There was no other reason for a grown-ass football player to whine so much about minor muscle pulls. The man is stuck in sixth grade.

Tony smiles politely at him. "Thanks," he replies, and suddenly finds himself with nothing else to say. He doesn't really know Clint that much. "So, anything interesting happen so far?" he asks. Gossip: a good, neutral subject.

"Naw," Clint shrugs. "Well, one of Jones's kids got into a fight with Paul's daughter." He smirks and points at somewhere with his chin. "And Thor brought along the gay brother."

_Loki's here_? Tony wonders immediately. Following the line of Clint's pointing, he finds Loki next to Thor, who is talking animatedly—lots of hand-waving happening—to a group of people. Loki looks bored as he sips whatever is in his glass, and the group is not really making him part of the conversation, judging by how everyone is angled away from him.

Tony has to consciously drag his eyes away from the sight and back to Barton. "Say, is there anything to drink here?" he extemporizes, "I'm dying of thirst."

Clint hums. "Yeah, over there," he points into the crowd. "Beware the punch. Some of the kids were sticking their hands in it earlier." He wrinkles his nose and pointedly takes a sip of his beer.

Beer. Of course. The answer to everything.

Tony sighs. "Right, thanks." He claps Barton on the back and dives into the crowd to rescue Loki from his brother.

o

"Hey fellas, would any of you happen to know where a man can get a soda in this place?" Tony asks.

The group turns in unison. Loki lights up like a Christmas tree when he sees him.

"_Fellas_, Tony? Really?" Lauren Wilson, Sam's wife, asks, putting a hand on her waist.

Tony winks and shoots her with finger guns. "You are married to one of the guys," he says, pronouncing _the guys_ like it's an exclusive club. "That means you are _also_ one of the guys."

She shakes her head at him, amused. "Somebody get rid of this pest," she adds good-naturedly. Her shining eyes leaves it clear that she means no offense.

In fact, Tony feels rather welcome, which is a new one. He and Sam's wife have never gotten along too well (it may have something to do with how she's damn hot and he hit on her the first time they met, before he knew who she was).

Loki sighs dramatically. "I suppose it's my turn to take one for the team," he muses aloud, making the others laugh. "Come on, Stark, I'll show you." He detaches himself from the group and leads the way.

Tony gets a cola, Loki gets a refill, and rather than hover around the refreshments table—this isn't a school dance, after all—they go hide out in the emergency stairs.

Only when he's sure no one in within earshot, Loki leans over and murmurs, "Thanks for the rescue."

"No problem," Tony replies, grinning. "What are you doing here anyway? I never would have pegged you for the _party-with-the-jocks_ type."

Loki looks away from him and shrugs. "Thor made me." He sips his drink, some kind of orange soda. Diet soda, if Tony knows him right.

"Made you?" he asks, eyebrows rising. "You don't come across as a guy who can be made to do things. He got something on you?" He elbows Loki's arm playfully.

"He started whining that we never see each other anymore," Loki mutters. His cheeks are tinged pink, for some reason. "He's such a whiny bitch sometimes, I swear." He doesn't sound angry or annoyed, contrary to what his words might imply. In fact, he sounds affectionate.

Coach, whining? Tony thinks about it for a moment, trying to picture it. He can't; all he can come up with is memories of Thor barking orders at them, yelling at them when they fuck up, and loudly congratulating them when they don't. _Maybe you just have to be his brother to really get him._

"Eh. I know the feeling." Tony leans back on the stairs, resting his weight on his elbows so the steps don't dig into his back. "My manager, Pepper?" He waits for Loki's nod of recognition. "She made me buy her tickets to some artsy flick. Hounded me for days to come with her, saying that I need some '_culture'_ or something."

Loki laughs, then shakes his head slowly. "Hm. I suppose I see her point." He smirks sideways at Tony and watching him out the corner of his eye as he adds, "You _do_ sometimes sound like an uncultured swine."

"Hey!" Tony punches him lightly in the shoulder. "Asshole. I'm very cultured, I'll have you know." He takes another sip, wondering if Loki really thinks he's ignorant or uncultured.

"Mm. Says the man who couldn't be bothered learning the French names of the moves," Loki says slyly, still smirking. Before Tony can reply, however, he continues. "So, what's the movie about?"

Uh. Tony blinks. "I haven't the faintest. Some Russian classic. Shown in the original language." He makes a face. He doesn't _read_ movies, thank you very much. "But I'm not gonna watch it, anyway, since she cancelled on me."

Loki glances at him. Then he looks at him. Then he stares at him. "You're going to miss watching," he says something garbled and Russian-sounding to Tony's ears, "in _the original language _because your girlfriend can't go?"

Right. Of course Loki knows what movie it is just from Tony's vague description, and of course he knows how to say the title in Russian. He's one of the artsy types. Why had Tony been expecting any different?

"Not my girlfriend," he says. "My manager. And you're welcome to come with me, if you really think I should see it." If he has to suffer through an hour and a half of _Ivan's Childhood_ (hell, even the _title_ sounds snobby), then Loki can damn well suffer too.

Loki... Loki looks like Tony just asked his hand in marriage. His eyes are wide and glittering, his lips slightly parted, his cheeks flushed. "Really?" he breathes.

Tony is suddenly aware of how close they are sitting. Or maybe it's the way that Loki's leaning closer to him and looking into his eyes like he just might catch Tony in a lie if he looks hard enough. He clears his throat. "Yeah, sure, why not?" Might as well. He can shove Pepper's face in it later. _Who's the uncultured one now, eh_?

Tony doesn't have the tickets on him, so he promises to text Loki the time and address when he gets home. He had been relieved when Pepper had cancelled, so he's not sure why he's pleased to be stuck going once again.

Whatever. At least he isn't going to have to deal with Pepper's accusing glances every time he misses the meaningful bit or laughs at something that isn't supposed to be a joke.

Really, it's a much better result than he expected when he forced himself to come to the stupid party. And the best part is that now he has an accomplice in playing hooky from it.

Suddenly, it doesn't seem like quite as bad a week.

o o o

Ballet class with Loki that Thursday is... weird.

And by 'weird', Tony means that Loki is being ridiculously strict. Either that, or Tony's head is in the clouds and he can't get a single move right, but he's the kind of guy who notices when he can't concentrate.

No; Loki is just holding him to insane standards for reasons Tony can't fathom.

The fourth time Loki goes, "No, no, no, you have to _isolate_ your leg from your torso, how many times do I have to tell you?" getting up close behind Tony and grabbing his hips to keep them still, Tony sighs and asks him if he's having a bad day or something.

Okay, so his exact words are, "Are you on your period or something?" but... Same thing, right?

Loki slaps him upside the head and calls him a misogynist.

Grinning, Tony cups his skull in one hand and turns to face him. "But no, seriously. You're riding my ass _hard_ today." He's trying his best to sound understanding, rather than judgmental.

Loki looks down, his lips thinning as he presses them together. When he finally meets Tony's eyes again, he looks flustered. "I haven't been _that_ bad."

Tony's eyebrows shoot up. "Uh, yeah, you have." He crosses his arms over his chest. "Did you miss the part five seconds ago where you were _literally_ breathing down my neck?"

Grimacing slightly, Loki apologizes. "Sorry, Stark. I just want to make sure you are as ready as possible for Sunday."

Sunday. The Avenger's last game of the regular season. The one that will define whether they move on to the playoffs.

"Aw, look at you," Tony coos, playfully pushing at Loki's shoulder with his fist. "Who's my number one fan?" he says, speaking like girls talking to their lap dogs. "Who'll be devastated if we don't make it?"

Loki scoffs. "Please, Stark, devastated?" he drawls. "I only care because Thor becomes _unbearable_ whenever you people lose." He's not quite meeting Tony's eyes here, so Tony knows he's not being entirely truthful.

So he _does_ care, whatever he says. Who would have guessed?

"Come on, say it," Tony teases, beaming, all warm inside. "You're rooting for me. You want me to win." He's half-tempted to go into the you-know-you-want-me singsong from Miss Congeniality—not that he'll ever admit to having watched that movie. He didn't watch it because he _wanted_ to. Pepper made him.

Tony does not own a copy of every Sandra Bullock movie ever made. He hated Gravity.

For a long moment, Loki looks at him from the corner of his eye. Then, he sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "Yes, alright, I admit it." He rolls his eyes. "I want you to win with the skills I taught you. So sue me." He looks awfully embarrassed, like Tony just made him admit his deepest secret.

Tony claps him on the shoulder. "Then I'll win it for you," he says confidently, grinning. Right now, he feels like he can do anything. _Winning a football game is nothing compared to getting Loki to like you,_ he thinks. "So don't worry about me."

Loki snorts. "Who said anything about worrying? Now, let's do the D-shape. From the top."

Tony sighs tiredly. He grabs the bar, stands in first position, does the foppish-arm-thingy 'preparation' that precedes every exercise, and puts his right leg forward.

He manages to get through the whole _rond de jambe_, which Loki calls "the D-shape" just for him, without any further trouble, and Loki has him move onto _frappe _("Strike the floor")_, _then onto _degage _("Follow the floor"), then onto _fondu _("Aaaand melt").

Fondu is the latest thing Tony has learned. Just one month ago, and he hasn't quite mastered it.

In the middle of doing the sideways version of the thing, with one leg in the air and the other slightly bent at the knee, he loses his balance and tips backwards.

Loki catches him easily, hands on Tony's upper back, and pushes him back into a vertical position. "And _that_ is why we grab onto the bar, Stark," he chides, laughing.

As if Tony didn't know, by now. "I don't need to grab on, I have you to catch me, don't I?" he jokes, resuming his footwork. "By the way, I've been meaning to ask you, what's up with the shiny shoes?" He points at Loki's feet.

Loki follows his gaze. "Ah, that," he says after a moment. "Well, those are my _pointe_ shoes. I'm breaking them in." He looks away, and if Tony didn't know better he's... bashful.

Pointe.

Suddenly Tony remembers a music box from his childhood. It belonged to his mother, and had a dainty porcelain ballerina standing on tiptoe on one tiny foot, the other one arched gracefully behind her. It would move around when you played the music, twirling and circling her little stage.

He used to love the stupid thing, right up to the point when his father found out he had secreted it into his room and smashed it, shouting that no son of his would be a sissy faggot. He signed Tony up for the first sports program that would take a seven-year-old: Little League.

Now _that_ had been a nightmare.

"I..." Tony's throat is dry. A blink, two, and he can focus on Loki at last. "I didn't know men danced on tiptoes too." There. Nice, safe, non-judgemental. And Pepper says he wouldn't know tact if it grabbed his ass in a crowded place.

Loki shrugs casually. "Most don't. I only got into it because I was the only boy in a class with fifteen girls. When they moved on to it, I didn't want to be left behind." He motions Tony to the bar again; just because they're talking, it's no excuse to slack off. "Haven't done it regularly since I was twenty, though."

Tony returns to the _fondu_, and Loki, who is an asshole, makes him do it from the fifth position, which Tony hates with a passion. And since he's suffering, Loki damn well better suffer too, so Tony asks him why he took it up again.

"I have a performance coming up," Loki explains absently, busy correcting Tony's knee. He goes on to tell his student about this little subversive experimental thing his company is putting on next month. "It's all about role reversal," he says. "The men will be dancing _en pointe, _all delicate and dainty. The women will take on the powerful, active movements normally reserved for men."

Sounds actually very interesting. And totally something Loki would do. Tony tells him such. And adds, "Please say I'm invited? I can't wait to see you in a tutu."

Loki flicks him in the ear.

"Ow!" Tony cups a hand over it and watches Loki warily. "What was that for?!"

"You assumed that the men would be playing the women." Loki flicks him again on the forehead. "Because you think that the only way women can be powerful and active is if they are playing men." He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. "I am very disappointed in you, Stark."

Tony watches him with his mouth open. On one hand, he wants to take revenge for the flicking (wasn't corporal punishment abolished?), but on the other hand, oops. Loki is right. He said that men would be dainty and Tony automatically assumed it meant they would be in drag. That coupled with the period joke from before... "Sorry," he says with feeling."I'll watch my mouth."

Loki smirks and pats him on the head. _Good doggy_. "Apology accepted. Maybe I _can_ let you come, after all."

Crisis averted. For now. Tony vows to start listening to Pepper more.

They proceed with the class, but Tony can't get the image of Loki twirling in a tutu out of his head. It's not even a funny mental image—if there is one man in the whole planet who can pull off a tutu, it's Loki—it's just odd. Loki has many girly mannerisms and he's not half as buff as his brother, but no one could ever mistake him for a woman. He's too broad in the shoulders, too tall, and his hips are too small. A skirt might help him in that department, but he just said he won't be wearing one...

"You know," Tony comments as he begins his post-session stretches, "I wouldn't have thought dainty was your style. Aren't you too, well, _long_?" Hesitantly, hoping Loki won't take offense, he adds, "And, uh, heavy?"

Thankfully, Loki takes his question seriously. "I am dieting, if you must know. As for it being my thing..." He takes a few steps back and gets on the tips of his toes. Slowly, he raises one leg backwards, letting his torso sway forward to compensate, and extends his arms.

Wow. That's all Tony can think for a second. Loki looks like a sculpture, perfectly still and graceful. He's wavering just slightly at the ankle, which is understandable because balancing is harder when you're still, but otherwise... Nothing moves.

Fascinating. No wonder Loki had gotten so angry when that idiot Rumlow made fun of ballet.

"I've never seen you dance, now that I think about it," Tony comments, because it's true. He's seen Loki demo exercises, but that's it. Even when he was doing research on Loki, he never saw videos of him or anything, just his Wikipedia page and stuff.

Something he'll have to remedy as soon as he gets home.

Loki arches an eyebrow at him and lowers his legs. He takes care to return his feet to fifth position and lower his arms in the proper form, which suddenly looks elegant instead of the pointless hassle it's always seemed to Tony. "You want me to dance for you?" he asks casually, as if wanting clarification.

Yeah, that sounds wrong. Tony blushes slightly, but his curiosity is greater than his embarrassment. Like, people _pay_ to watch Loki dance. "Yes. Please?" He knows Loki won't pass up the chance to show off; he just has to ask nicely.

"As you wish." Loki grabs the remote control for the music system and turns it on, a piano melody filling the practice room. "Mind you, it probably won't be very clean, I'm improvising here."

Tony says he doesn't care. He merely sits down with his legs stretched as far as they will go, not liking the idea of his muscles complaining all day tomorrow.

Loki starts dancing with a_ fondu _(and Tony suddenly _gets_ what Loki has been trying to tell him when he says _you have to do it softly, like you're melting_), his arm movements perfectly synched to his legs and his head held nice and high, following his hand with his eyes.

The rest, well, Tony is too entranced to think about, but he thinks he recognizes some of the moves. They just look _completely different_ when done by a pro. And it's not just that; Loki pulls off dainty and graceful _perfectly. _His feet, which in reality are huge, look tiny and fragile. He bends like a leaf of grass laden with too many raindrops, then turns around and _blooms_, then... then...

Tony hasn't seen anything so deliciously feminine in his _life._ And that was a rough, unpolished improv. What must Loki look like after hours of rehearsing?

"Fuck," is all he says when the song comes to an end and Loki stills.

Loki tucks behind his ear some hairs that came loose while he was twirling and offers him a hand up. "I take it you liked it?"

Tony grabs it and pulls himself to his feet. "I'm _so_ going to that performance." God, why is his heart pounding? He belatedly lets go of Loki's hand.

Loki laughs. "I'll get you tickets."

o o o

Everyone is looking at him. Tony's sure of it. He doesn't belong here. He knows it, and they know it, so they're looking at him.

Some woman with a buzz cut and five piercings on her face gives him a knowing smile, looking over his simple red button down. She's hanging out with some guy in skinny jeans and a satiny pink shirt.

In fact, Tony is pretty sure he's the only person present wearing jeans in a non-ironic way.

Loki is late, and Tony is standing alone in a crowd of sharks who are just waiting to start picking away at his psyche.

This whole situation makes him uncomfortable, and he hates that. Tony just hates feeling like an idiot, and hipster-filled cultural things make Tony feel like an idiot. Sort of like the meathead football player that everyone thinks he is.

Okay, maybe Loki's not late, maybe Tony is a little early. But Loki isn't there, and without his friend, Tony feels naked and very much out of place. He tries not to read anything into the fact that he'd be more comfortable with the situation if Clint were there, and they were making fun of the ridiculous crowd together.

_More tattoos than brain cells,_ Tony would say.

Clint would laugh, and make some obnoxious response like, _yeah, and not a chick in the crowd worth taking home with you, man._

Fortunately, one of the crazy art-chick crowd is not who Tony is planning on spending his evening with. He grins at the thought.

That, of course, is when he finally catches sight of Loki.

Loki wearing leather pants.

That is unacceptable. No one is allowed to do that, and somehow not look like some kind of pretentious art-house douche. And yet, there's Loki, doing exactly that. And there's Tony, staring at a guy in leather pants. Seriously.

He shakes his head to clear the fog, and wishes there was some kind of pill to cure the near-constant confusion he's been suffering from lately. Did he get a concussion that was somehow missed?

Loki smiles at him and saunters over, though how anyone saunters in leather pants is beyond Tony's comprehension. "Sorry it took me so long, the train was late." Loki actually looks apologetic, which is an odd look on that usually snark-filled face.

Tony grins in return. "Hey, no problem. I'm just glad you're here so I don't feel obliged to see a movie with just these Breakfast Club rejects."

Loki laughs, and everything is okay again. Tony is not alone with people who think he's stupid and out of place. He has Loki.

Something Loki said pops to the forefront of his mind. "Wait, the train?"

Nodding, Loki motions off to the nearest subway entrance, almost two blocks away. "It usually isn't so bad, but sometimes you have late trains. Inevitable, really."

Tony is dumbfounded. Loki is everything Tony is not when it comes to class and culture. So it's almost impossible to imagine him taking the subway all, let alone in the middle of the night in Manhattan. Crazy people, muggers, and drug dealers hang out on the subway in the middle of the night, not people like Loki. "So… you're planning to take the subway home," he glances at his watch and does a quick calculation, "at one am?"

Loki looks surprised that it even occurred to Tony. "Of course. How else would I get home?"

Trying to accept that discretion is occasionally the better part of valor, Tony just nods. Internally, he starts plotting how to convince Loki to let him drive them both home. It's nothing weird, it's just that Tony can already imagine Thor's reaction if Tony gets his little brother killed by letting him take the subway with some schizophrenic mugger.

Yeah. The only reason Tony helps people is self-preservation. That sounds like the Tony that he knows.

o

The movie, as it turns out, is not the worst thing ever.

It's long, and quiet, and emotional, and… yeah, okay, it's not Tony's kind of movie. But Tony does see the purpose behind it. It's one of those coming of age things that people like so much, like Catcher in the Rye. He never really understood that, either. It's just some book about a self-involved teenager who doesn't know how to hire a hooker.

By the time the movie ends, Tony has decided that asking Loki to come was definitely a good plan. Loki explained things that made no sense, and without giving him Pepper's usual 'oh god, you're an idiot' look. Loki didn't laugh at him for not seeing the point. If anything, Loki seems to have taken the whole thing as a personal challenge.

"You know what I think you'd like?" he asks as they exit the theater. "Cinema Paradiso. Much more your style. We should see it some time."

Somehow, before Tony even has time to formulate an answer that involves _hell_ and _to-the-no_, he feels his mouth open and hears, "Sure. I'd love to."

What the honest-to-god fuck was that?

Loki is grinning at him, though, so it kind of feels worth it.

"Well, I guess I'd better get going," Loki starts to turn toward the subway entrance, "don't want to be on the subway too late."

Once again, Tony reacts without thinking. He grabs at Loki's arm and manages to catch his hand. "Hey, why don't I drive you home?"

"Drive me?" Loki looks mildly surprised, which is probably as surprised as Loki has ever looked. "You don't have to do that. I really appreciate you asking me to come, but I know that you—"

"I'd rather drive you," Tony insists. "And I didn't ask you to come because I wanted you to appreciate it, I asked you to come because I wanted you to come." His voice is firmer than he expects.

Loki reacts to it. His hand goes still in Tony's, and he nods."If you really want to, I'm not going to complain about not having to take the subway at this hour." The smile on his face is strangely soft. Tentative, maybe.

Tony once again has a hard time catching his breath. He realizes belatedly that he's still holding Loki's hand and clears his throat, releasing it back into the wild awkwardly. Loki merely shakes his head at him.

They quietly head down to the parking structure where Tony left his Viper, and Loki is suitably impressed with his exceptionally expensive ego extension. (At least that's what Pepper calls his car.)

It's a little odd, as Tony is the sort of person who requires constant auditory stimulation, but their silence feels comfortable. It isn't like he's run out of things to say to Loki and is counting the minutes until he can be rid of him. He's just a little tired, and the annoying movie has him thinking all kinds of things about how sometimes the world is a shitty place, and what people should be doing about it.

Oh jeez. That's probably what one of those hipster jackasses would want Tony to be thinking about, isn't it?

Loki gives his address, and it's not too far away, especially with the late night traffic. When they're just a mile or two away, Loki smiles over at him. "You know, I always thought about getting a car like this." He pauses and his cheeks flush. "It's a little embarrassing to say, but the reason I haven't is because my mother would be bothered. She says people only buy sports cars to drive too fast and end up in accidents."

Tony can't help his laugh at that. "Well I definitely do a bit of the former. Actually, I got it because it pissed my dad off. He said it was a waste of money, and if I went around spending like I was Jay Z, I'd be broke before my career even ends."

"Well doesn't he sound like a little ray of sunshine?" Loki sneers a bit at that.

Tony fights back a grin. "That's Howard." He shakes his head for what must be the hundredth time that night. "But he's not a subject I have any interest in talking about. What about you? Got those tickets for me?"

That incites laughter. "Only you would decide to change the subject to something completely self-serving, Stark."

He flashes the billion-dollar grin. "Of course! What else would I change the subject to?"

The car pulls smoothly into the empty space beside Loki's building, and Loki looks surprised to find himself home. "That was fast."

"I do drive too fast, remember?" Tony jokes. "But I swear, I was five miles an hour under the speed limit the whole way here." He's not sure why he feels a need to tell Loki that, but a lot of nonsense seems to be popping out of his mouth lately.

For some reason though, his inability to control his mouth keeps amusing Loki, which Tony will accept as success.

"Thank you again, Tony. I enjoyed myself." Loki undoes his seatbelt and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. It makes him look oddly shy.

Wait, did he just call Tony… _Tony_?

"Good," Tony's voice is coming out strangely low and gravelly. "That was the point. I'm gonna hold you to taking me to see that other movie."

"I look forward to it. I'm sure you'll like it better." Loki smiles at him and opens the car door. Then he hesitates, looking back at Tony. He leans over suddenly, gently touches his fingers to Tony's chin, turning his head towards him, and presses their lips together.

Tony's mind goes completely white-out blank.

It's a chaste thing, just a peck on the lips, but it's a _kiss._

Loki is kissing him.

Tony took Loki to the movies and bought him popcorn and a coke and now Loki is kissing him.

_His lips are soft,_ he thinks idly to himself.

By the time he finishes that thought, Loki is pulling away, licking his lips. "Bye," he says with a tiny smile, his eyes all alight, and gets out of the car.

Still dazzled, Tony finds himself copying the gesture before he even thinks about it. He can taste the salt from the popcorn they've been consuming, and his brain starts to short out again at the realization that the salt he's tasting came from_ Loki's lips_.

Outside, Loki reaches his apartment building and turns to give Tony one last smile and a goodbye wave, both of which Tony copies automatically. Well, he knows he copies the wave. What his face is doing, he has no idea.

He has even less of a clue what his brain is doing, other than flailing.

As drives away, there is only one thing on his mind: the resounding echo of _What the fuck just happened?_

o o o

Tony walks into the locker room early on Sunday.

It's empty, just as planned.

Sighing, he sets his duffel on a bench and starts changing into the uniform.

Suddenly he hears footsteps and startles, getting stuck with his shirt around his arms and head in the process.

Fuck. Fuck. He _really_ isn't feeling like making small talk today. He just wants to get the game over with and then hide out in his house until the next season.

"Dude, want help?" Barton's voice asks, amused.

Clint Barton. Of all the people he could have met, it just _had_ to be him.

"Nah, I got it," Tony replies into his shirt, which means he gets a noseful of his own breath. It stinks—ah, he forgot to brush his teeth today. And have breakfast. And lunch.

Stupid Loki and his stupid confusing kis—

Growling, Tony manages to get the fucking shirt off his head and throws it into his duffel. Then he has to take it out again to look for his underarmor shirt. As he pulls it on, his stomach growls. "Not. One. Word," he says out loud, pulling the stretchy material down his back.

"Wasn't planning on saying any," Barton comments, dropping trou.

Tony wrenches his eyes away from him and stands up. _Just changing into uniform with a teammate_, he reminds himself. _No reason to be uncomfortable. You've done this a million times._ His hands go to the front of his pants and hesitate a second, Tony's eyes flicking over to Barton to check if he's looking.

"So, what's up?" Barton asks, jumping in place to tug his sports tights up over his underwear. "Bad day?"

Understatement. "Bad weekend," Tony says, finally getting over himself and getting his pants off. As he steps out of his shoes and jeans, apparently feeling the need to fill the silence, he blurts out, "A guy kissed me Saturday."

He freezes.

Barton freezes too.

Tony studies his sock-clad toes, swallowing hard. What the fuck does he think he's doing, blurting gay stuff to the biggest homophobe on the team? While he's standing there in his underwear?

There's a rustling of synthetic clothing, and Tony looks up to see that Barton has graduated to putting on compression shorts. He clears his throat and starts getting his tights on, reminding himself not to pull them up his ass crack. This is football, not ballet.

They dress in silence for a while, and Tony thinks Clint has decided to ignore him, like if he ignores the gay guy long enough, maybe he'll go away. He consoles himself that it could be worse; Barton could have decided to beat him up.

"So," Barton says suddenly, his voice cutting the silence like a knife, "who do we have to kill?"

Tony's mouth drops open. "Um," he says eloquently, "thanks, but please don't. He's..." _Thor's brother? My best friend? Important?_ "...a friend." He looks down at his jersey, stretched around his shoulderpads, and starts putting them on. He clips the pads closed and tugs his jersey down, and then he sighs and confesses: "I _may _have been sending him mixed signals."

Okay, not so much 'mixed signals' as 'neon signs with tacky music all pointing the same direction'. Which is something he realized yesterday—or was it this morning?—as he lay awake in bed, touching his lips to make sure Loki hadn't left anything on them or something, because it sure as hell felt like it.

Even now they still tingled.

Barton looks at him out the corner of his eye, bent over tying his cleats. He looks away and says casually, "Seems to me you liked it."

Did he? Tony wonders. It happened so fast... The only things he can remember about the whole thing are Loki's smell—cologne, leather—and the salty taste of popcorn. And warmth. And the little _chu_ sound Loki's lips made when he pulled away.

Aaaaandhe's touching his lips again.

He pulls his hand down as if burned, sitting down and stuffing his street clothes into his duffel to avoid looking at Barton. "So what if I did?" he whispers angrily. If Barton tells everyone and they start bullying him about it... Well, they can try. Tony's not about to let them.

Barton, however, just shrugs. "Then maybe consider kissing him again? I dunno. If you like him too, I mean."

Tony digests that. Does he like Loki back? Maybe. He's not sure—but he's not sure he doesn't, either.

Loki's funny to be around. He's kind, deep down—very deep down, sometimes, under the cover of sarcasm and wit. And... and pretty, Tony has to admit. Handsome, yes, but mainly pretty; with his silk scarves and his perfect skin and his wavy hair that somehow fit with his ridiculous height and his broad shoulders and his huge hands. And his eyes that glitter when he looks at Tony, like he's thinking of a joke at Tony's expense.

And Tony remembers finding himself unable to look away from him sometimes. Bending over backwards to hear him laugh. Spending time with him, talking about everything and nothing, natural as breathing.

And if he was a woman, Tony would have been trying to get into 'her' pants from day one, probably.

Maybe it really _is_ that simple?

He chews on the inside of his lower lip a moment longer, thinking about it. Dating Loki for real would be pretty damn fantastic, if their Tony-didn't-know-it-was-a-date last night is anything to go by.

Suddenly remembering where he is, Tony asks, "So, you wouldn't mind? That I'm apparently gay, I mean?"

Clint snorts. "Liking _one dude _doesn't make you gay, Stark." He chuckles, and then snorts again at the absurdity of the idea. "Is that what this is all about? You're having a Big Gay Panic over one kiss?"

Tony shrugs, embarrassed. Yeah, okay, most of his thoughts last night had in fact circled over to _but I'm not gay_, but Barton doesn't need to know that. "You know what I mean, dipshit."

"Yeah, I know, I know," Clint sighs in the manner of someone coming down from a good bout of laughter. "No, I won't mind. Well," he adds, "provided you can keep your eyes off this gorgeous specimen," and he gestures up and down himself.

"Pft, I'm not interested in your third-rate manmeat, but thanks," Tony dismisses casually, to Clint's mock-offense.

But before Clint can say anything in retaliation, the door opens and Steve comes in. He greets them with a smile, looking very sunny for a guy about to play a game that could end their season.

Tony and Clint separate like startled cockroaches and go to opposite corners of the locker room, where their respective lockers are.

Barton doesn't say anything to Steve, but that's probably because Steve always rolls his eyes at his sophomoric jokes.

_Just wait until his posse get here_, he thinks.

As more people start trickling in, Tony keeps tensing, sure that _this _time Barton will open his big mouth and spill all of Tony's beans, but Barton returns to being his irritating self with the slightly-too-acid jokes.

Not a single mention of gayness, though, whether in general or Tony's in particular, not even in jokes. In fact, he even goes as far as to cross his arms and tell off a linebacker that makes a crack about "beating those little faggots" in reference to the opposing team: _Gay jokes are so last year, bro._

Once everyone trickles in and the locker room starts to smell of many men put together, Clint and Tony go sit outside the door to wait for Coach.

"Rogers is pretty hot," Clint comments suddenly, a propos of nothing, and hands him a protein bar.

Tony takes the food gratefully. Instead of saying anything, he punches Barton's shoulder pad in manly thanks, which in turn makes Clint grab Tony in a headlock and grind his knuckles hard into his hair.

Later, as Tony bites into the protein bar, he feels strangely like he's only just met Clint, despite having been his teammate for the past year.

o

Everything still feels horribly tentative. It's like he's walking across an icy lake. He's just waiting for the first crack to form under his feet, which will inevitably lead to the moment when he's plunged into the frigid water below.

He's pulled out of his morbid reverie when a strong hand claps down on his shoulder.

"Ready for the game,Tony?" Coach's voice cuts through the frost on his brain. "I'm counting on you scoring at least twice today."

Tony cringes at the choice in wording. "Um, yeah. Will do, Coach."

"Everything okay?" Thor looks down at him with genuine concern in his eyes.

"Fine!" It comes out too quickly, defensively, before Tony even thinks about it. So he takes a deep, calming breath, and shakes his head. "I'm fine. Just a little jittery. I hate that it's all coming down to one game."

Thor nods at that. "I know." He turns to walk over to his spot on the sidelines, but stops and looks back at Tony with an odd expression. "Almost forgot. Loki said to wish you luck. And that he's waiting to mock your failure."

"Why wait?" Tony snorts. "If he wanted to make fun of me so much, he should have come."

Thor cocks his head in question. "I figured he'd have told you. He did. He's over there with my wife." He points out into the crowd to where the team wives and girlfriends sit.

Sure enough, Tony can't help but recognize the slim figure sitting next to Thor's wife. His heart tries to jump through his ribs, and he doesn't quite know how to react. Everything he can think of doing feels awkward and stupid. He feels awkward and stupid.

He feels his hand lift in a wave just like the one from the car last night, and he knows it's woefully inadequate. Loki seems not to notice, though, and lifts his own hand to return the gesture.

What the hell is he doing?

He heads down to his usual spot on the bench, near where Steve is standing.

"Looks like Loki's come to see if we remembered any of our lessons, huh?" Steve asks in an amused tone. "I think he'll be disappointed in most of us."

Tony laughs at that. "No kidding. Rumlow seems to have gotten_ less_ light on his feet this season. Guy doesn't get his shit together, he's done."

Steve nods. "True. We could show him that at least a few of us appreciated his effort, though."

"That's the plan," Tony nods in agreement. Loki worked his ass off (like he'd had one to begin with) trying to make Tony more agile. Tony is damned well going to make him proud of his months of hard work.

So when the game starts with the Avengers kicking off to their opponents, Tony is just a little disappointed. He knows objectively that the first possession of the game isn't going to be his only chance, but he kind of wanted it anyway.

Fortunately, after an uninspiring drive, the Avengers' defense holds them to a field goal. Good start, all things considered. By the time Tony takes the field, he's so full of adrenalin, it feels a little like being on morphine. Everything is moving slowly, and his body feels disconnected.

On the very first play, Steve gives him the signal. His play.

He tries not to look too excited, but that's always been a struggle for him. He fucking loves it when Steve throws the ball in his direction. Not just for the attention, though he's certainly not opposed to that. It's just that moment of weightlessness when he lifts off the grass to catch the pass. It's so quiet there in his head, like everything around him is gone, and all he can see is himself, and the ball, and they're the only things in the whole world that matter.

He lets his knees bend a bit to cushion the fall when he comes back down, ball tucked into the cradle of his arm, and then he's off. He slips past his own defender easily, and hears the man curse angrily as he takes a dive into the turf. Laying on the speed, all that's left for him to do is run.

He'd say it's his favorite part, but really, it's all his favorite part. The whole thing, from the coin toss all the way to the very last seconds on the clock. The whole game is an endless source of joy for him. All the adrenalin, and speed, and… well, the thousands of screaming fans sure don't hurt his feelings. He may not be as much of an attention whore as everyone thinks he is, but—no, that's a lie. He totally is.

He's halfway down the field before he realizes it, and that's swiftly followed by the realization that there are no defenders anywhere near him.

Like he said, adrenalin.

Still, he doesn't slow down until he's firmly into the end zone. He turns and surveys the field for a flag, wondering if he just missed it, and they're going to have to go all the way back. Probably some stupid pointless mistake, too.

There's no flag, though.

The crowd is deafening, and it takes him a moment for his head to clear. Score. He actually scored on their first play of the game.

When he gets back to the sidelines, he's greeted by the congratulations of ecstatic teammates. Thor smacks him on the back and even Steve shoots him a grin. He shouldn't think that way, though; Steve has been pretty cool since they started doing the ballet thing. He's really not such a bad guy, now that Tony knows him better.

For no justifiable reason, Tony turns to the stands and finds Loki's seat again. Loki gives him a little smirk and a nod. He waves again like an utter nitwit, and the smirk grows.

"Loki, huh?" Clint's voice comes from behind him, and Tony spins around so fast that he almost falls off the edge of the bench.

He swallows hard and bites his lip, not sure how to answer.

"Well I knew all that gay would rub off on at least one of us." The words are as obnoxious as ever, but the smile on Clint's face isn't that hetero-superior uber-masculine leer Tony might have expected.

With just a moment's thought, Tony decides to give Clint the benefit of the doubt. "What you're saying is that you wish it was you, right?"

"You know man, sometimes I think it would be way the hell easier." Clint's laugh sounds genuine. "I mean, who understands women? Guys are easy."

"I don't know about that," Tony shrugs half-heartedly. "I never had too much trouble understanding what women want. They're just, you know… people. Maybe you're just talking to the wrong women."

"Trying to turn me to the dark side, man?" Clint elbows him lightly in the ribs.

"I swear on Vince Lombardi's ghost, Clint, if you don't stop hitting on me, I'm gonna have to kick your ass." Tony returns the elbow, then shoves Clint with his shoulder. There's no hesitation in Clint's return shove, no flinch. Nothing but amusement.

Clint chuckles, staring off into the stands. "I dunno, man. I think your boyfriend might do it for you."

"Huh? He's behind you, jackass." Tony tries not to notice that he just referred to Loki, even if only passively, as his boyfriend.

"True," Clint agrees. Then he points up at the giant screen mounted on the upper level of the stands. The camera is pointed at Coach's wife, a knockout who is unsurprisingly always the center of attention. Loki, sitting slumped next to her, is glaring down in the general direction of Tony and Clint.

So Tony turns around on the bench again, and grins up at Loki, giving him a wink and motioning toward the screen. He sees the exact moment when Loki realizes he's onscreen, as the giant green eyes widen even further, and he sighs in that long-suffering way Loki always does.

That's when Tony remembers what the hell he's doing. Jesus. No wonder Loki had the idea that Tony was flirting with him. He fucking _was_ flirting with him.

Next to him, Clint looks all too amused with Tony's obvious waffling.

"Shut up," Tony demands.

Clint raises his hands defensively. "I'm not saying anything. Just…"

"Just what?"

"Just, you should climb out of that closet willingly before you accidentally fall out. You know, maybe by flirting with Coach's baby bro on the jumbotron?" Clint gives him one last grin before heading over to get a drink before they're up again.

Tony resolutely doesn't look back at Loki, not wanting to give anyone _ideas_.

o

They win the game—of course they do, Tony was "on fire" according to Coach, and his enthusiasm to pummel their opponents apparently infected his teammates—so, naturally, the next step is celebrating.

Because, fuck, they _won the game_, and that means the NY Avengers are going to playoffs for the first time since Tony got drafted.

A whole team (minus a few guys that already had plans) is a lot of people for one venue, but Bruce has a really huge house and it gets volunteered in the fray, not that Bruce tries to hard to stop it. So they shower, change, and file out towards their cars, singing rude drinking songs already, tipsy on victory.

The happy throng passes Coach and family on the way out, and Steve tells them of their plans, inviting Thor and Loki along.

Coach has to make puppy eyes at his wife, but she relents easily, rolling her eyes and telling him he can go, provided he changes all of their baby daughter's nappies for the next week.

Tony beams triumphantly at Loki, and Loki smiles indulgently back at him. He's definitely coming.

Awesome.

His heart concurs, beating double time. He wonders if Loki might kiss him again, and chokes on his own spit.

Thor thumps his back heartily, nearly throwing him to the floor.

It hurts, but it does wonders in dispelling the sudden tension.

o o o

At the party, Loki and Tony quickly secure a couch and a bowl of Cheetos for themselves, mainly because Loki only came here for Tony, but they also need to talk. It's not the best place to do it, but Tony figures that when everyone else is hammered he can take Loki to a quieter spot.

Tony leaves Loki there to hold the fort while he goes get something to drink. He knows Bruce's wife should be about done aggressively setting up a refreshments table, and looks for it.

Sam intercepts him with a well placed beer in front of his chest and starts talking about one of Tony's brilliant scoring runs, practically waxing poetic about it. And Tony grins and laughs and praises Sam too, deciding that Loki can wait five seconds. Maybe Loki will want the beer.

Well, the five seconds extend to five minutes, and then to ten as more and more people stop Tony on the way to congratulate him. And Tony can't help but _revel_ in the attention, because he played damned well and he knows it.

By the time comes back to Loki, both the beer and the glass of punch he's carrying are warm, but Loki smiles welcomingly at him and pats the spot next to him invitingly.

Tony's heart jumps at the prospect of sitting so close to him, though he still isn't sure if he likes the feeling or not, and he plops down as casually as he can. Their thighs aren't touching, but he can feel the warmth Loki's radiating. "So, did I put your lessons to good use or did I put your lessons to good use?" he asks, handing him the beer.

Narrowing his eyes, Loki looks Tony up and down speculatively (it makes Tony feel like he's burning and flying at the same time, or possibly crash-landing) and then waves his hand in a so-so gesture. "Eh, I'll give you a B. You messed up a pirouette."

Tony didn't mess up anything, especially not a pirouette, chiefly because Loki hasn't taught him how to do those yet. So that means that Loki's talking out of his ass—_No, don't think about Loki's ass_. He clears his throat, but his voice still come out hoarse. "Come on, admit it, I might not be as graceful and elegant as you, but I got the job done." He sips on his drink and tries not to make a face at the overly sweet flavor.

Getting slightly pink around the cheeks, Loki takes a sip of his beer and says nothing. His eyes are laughing, though.

It's not every day Tony leaves Loki speechless, and he celebrates by reaching for a Cheeto.

Only Loki apparently has the same idea, because their hands brush over the bowl.

They look at each other.

Tony notices Loki's lips are wet with beer. He remembers the feel of them against his own, warm and soft and salty, and swallows hard. He looks up, only to find Loki watching him with nearly black eyes.

Loki leans almost imperceptibly closer—or is that Tony doing the leaning?—and their hands brush again, and Tony wonders if he's gonna get kissed again, in front of everyone—

"Oh, hey, Loki!" someone calls, and Loki turns away.

Tony blinks. What the fuck almost just happened? He breathes shakily and drinks what's left of his punch in three long gulps, thinking, _Some days I wish I hadn't given up alcohol_. When his heart stops hammering so much, he looks up to see Steve talking with Loki.

Something about thanking him for training them, really gave them an edge, etc.

Loki looks occupied, and Tony needs a refill anyway, so he makes noises about being right back and starts wading through the crowded towards the table with the drinks.

On the way, Bruce grabs him by the arm and points, "Tony, you _have_ to see this, Clint Barton is giving Nat a lap dance!"

What? Tony grins, already picturing it. "How drunk _is_ he?" he breathes, letting Bruce steer him towards the circle of people watching the action.

o

By the time Tony returns to his and Loki's couch, half an hour, four glasses of punch and a trip to the toilet later, Loki isn't there anymore.

_Must have gotten bored of waiting_, he thinks guiltily, looking around for him. Loki's tall, but so are most football players, so it's probably the only time in his life he can blend in with the crowd. Much to Tony's chagrin.

He asks Steve if he knows where Loki went. He doesn't know.

He asks Bruce, who thinks he saw Loki going to the toilet but isn't sure.

He asks Thor, who tells him Loki went outside to take a cab home.

When Tony gets outside the bar, Loki isn't there. Dismayed, he pulls out his phone and texts him. _wheer r u? i cant fin du_

A few seconds later, he gets Loki's reply. _On my way home, Stark_.

He frowns at his phone. _u wen t awayy? y? i tought we wer havin fun? _This thumbs feel like sausages pressing the tiny letters.

_You were busy, I didn't want to bother you._

Tony can practically hear Loki's voice saying the words, in that no-no-I'm-alright tone he sometimes got. _ur not a bother i misss u_

Next thing he knows, his phone is ringing.

He nearly drops it—okay, no, he totally drops it, and then falls flat on his ass when he bends down to get it. He checks the screen and it takes him a little while to notice he's holding it the other way round. When he finally accepts the call and puts the phone to his ear, it's played almost the whole song he uses as ringtone.

"Ya, Loki, 'lo!" he exclaims happily.

"You're drunk," Loki whispers accusingly.

"Whadaya mean 'm drunk?" Tony laughs. "Can' be drunk. I don' toush the stuff. Been drinkin' punch all evenen..en."

Loki curses emphatically, but Tony can't make out the words. Then he says, "Someone must have spiked the punch." He sighs. "Sit down and don't drink anything else, I'm coming to get you."

Tony smiles at the Christmas lights decorating the house across the street. Loki is worried about him. How adorable. God, he loves this guy. "M'kay," he replies, and it feels incomplete. He has so many things he wants to tell Loki... "I'll wait inside. Lovya."

There is silence on the other side of the line, but it doesn't matter. Loki's coming back just for him!

Grinning widely, he ends the call, pushes himself to his feet—takes him a few tries—and goes back inside to get his stuff and wait for Loki.

o o o

Tony wakes up when his phone makes that annoying noise that means the battery is dying.

In the few seconds it takes him to come to full consciousness, he realizes quite a few things. First, he only heard the phone chirping because it was right next to his head, on the nightstand. He's not sure why he left it unplugged. Second, third, and fourth, he is still wearing jeans, which makes no sense because he's in bed, he has a massive hangover, and… oh.

Oh, no.

He presses the button to turn his phone on, and it proceeds to power off. Fuck.

Ignoring the pain in his head, he stands up and realizes thing number five. He has no idea why he drank alcohol last night. Or when. But it would explain why—thing number six—he has no idea how he got to his bed. Also, seventh thing, he's been sleeping on his stomach and his neck _hurts_.

But he can't be bothered with mere details like pain right now. He doesn't remember much, but he's pretty sure that he ruined his life at some point last night.

He feels around on the nightstand for the charger cable, and doesn't find it. Grumbling, he gets out of bed to look for it—and promptly loses his balance and falls to his knees on the floor. Fuck. When did his bones turn to jelly? Ignoring the pain, he locates the cable and crawls towards it.

It takes a few tries with his clumsy numb fingers to get the damn thing plugged in, and then another minute to get it to turn the phone on again.

Immediately, it brings up his text messages. He must have had it on that before it turned off, and by some odd quirk of technology, it's still sitting on his most recent conversation. A very drunken conversation.

With Loki.

He stares at it for a long moment, and can't decide how to react. Utter shame and horror at having drunk texted Loki and said what he said? Silly teenage-girl elation because Loki called him Tony instead of just Stark, and said they would _talk_?

He exits out of his messaging app and goes to check for missed calls, only to find that his last call was… from Loki. So is the second last. Checking the time stamps, he determines that the calls happened one right after the texts and the other one half an hour later.

Oh, no. What did he say to Loki? What has he_ done_?

His phone doesn't specify how long calls last, so he has no way to know if he spent an hour pouring out his soul over an alcohol-induced telephone call or reciting football statistics or what. His cheeks burn with shame that he isn't sure he needs to feel. He considers calling Loki again immediately, to see how much damage he's done. Then it occurs to him that he has no idea what time Loki might have gone to bed. If Tony kept Loki up all night weeping into the phone like some kind of jilted lover, and then calls him back immediately, Loki will not be amused. The last thing Tony wants to do is give Loki (more?) reason to be pissed at him.

Those drunk texts are going to be hard enough to explain, and he knows exactly what he said there. Trying to apologise for what you said without knowing exactly what that is? Pretty much impossible.

Maybe he should let Loki call him.

What if Loki never does call him?

_No guts, no glory_, his father's voice in his head reminds him.

Taking a deep breath, he calls Loki.

He waits one dial tone, two, three—

Music starts playing somewhere in his house.

"Is that _Call Me Maybe_?" Tony wonders aloud. Is he hallucinating?

But no, a few moments later, the music cuts off, and Loki's voice comes from Tony's phone, groggy and hoarse. "Hello?"

Suddenly the phone feels more like a live wire in Tony's hands. "Mornin'," he manages, his brain going in circles with the realization that Loki is in his house. That Loki put him to bed and tucked him in. "Where are you?"

"You sound like death warmed over, Tony," Loki murmurs, and footsteps sound in the guestroom next door.

The conversation cuts off, and right as Tony is about to dial Loki again, the door opens.

Loki must have slept in his clothes, too, because his usually pristine shirt is all wrinkly and his belt is unbuckled. He's not wearing shoes, and his hair is a mess of tangled curls.

Tony raises his hand in something like a wave or a salute, blinking tiredly. "Hi," he croaks

Slowly, Loki pads over to where he's huddled on the floor and sits down in front of him. "How's your head?" he asks, voice is softer than usual, but no less rough and sexy—

_Whoa. Calm down Tony, _he tells himself. His head feels like... well, it's throbbing in time with his pulse, and Loki's nearness isn't helping in that department. "I, um… I dunno. Maybe ask the little men hitting the inside of my skull with sledgehammers what they think."

Loki chuckles at that, his smile completely unguarded. "I could make you breakfast, if you're feeling up to 's old hangover cure."

"Is there bacon involved?" Tony asks hopefully. He really isn't feeling hungry, but he's sure that will pass the second he smells bacon.

Loki shakes his head affectionately, biting his lip. "Is there a better cure for a hangover than bacon and some kind of ridiculously fatty carb-rich junk food?"

"No idea," Tony answers. "Haven't had a hangover since I was..." He thinks back. "Mm, twenty, I think." Speaking of... "Was the punch spiked?" Maybe they can pretend the texting never happened if he distracts Loki long enough.

Loki nods. "Yes, and sorry, but I may have outed you to your team." He grimaces. "Depends on how bright they are. I scolded them for spiking the one drink everyone should be able to trust to be non-alcoholic." He sighs, resting his forehead on his knees, and then gets to his feet. "Let's put you in bed again. I'll bring breakfast here."

"No," Tony says, but he lets Loki pull him up. "I'll wait in the kitchen. Least I can do. And..." He thinks of his private shame, being a recovering alcoholic. So private his team didn't even know to keep the punch unadulterated... "It's my fault about the punch. For not telling anyone."

Smiling sadly, Loki squeezes his shoulders (his hands are warm). He says nothing to contradict that, though, which probably means he agrees but, for once, doesn't want to add insult to injury. "Lets get you some food."

They make their way towards the kitchen. Or rather, Loki directs the way; Tony just concentrates on shuffling one foot in front of the other.

Once they get there, Tony gingerly sits down on a chair and rests his head on the table, using his crossed arms as a pillow. He dimly hears Loki puttering around.

o

The next sound Tony's brain computes comes from right next to his ear. He raises his head, wiping the drool off his chin, and spots the greasiest, most beautiful sandwich in the world, sitting unassumingly on a plate next to his elbow.

Ah, right.

"Sorry, fell asleep," he murmurs, lowering his arms to his lap.

Loki sets a mug in front of him and rests a hand on his hair. "It's no problem, Tony," he murmurs, his fingers making little rubbing motions.

Feels like heaven. Tony peers hopefully into the mug, but it's just water, not coffee. He lifts it to his mouth anyway, using both hands, and drinks it. It tastes like Jesus himself cried the water into the mug and then blessed it: pure distilled heavenly liquid, washing away all the fuzz that grew in his mouth overnight.

When he's done, Loki takes it away silently and refills it,

Meanwhile, Tony examines the sandwich, trying to decide how to attack it. It looks positively delicious, and he can see from here that it's fat with layers and layers of bacon—and is that a fried egg? His stomach stops churning appreciatively.

Loki sets Tony's mug down where he can grab it and sits down, sipping some coffee. "I trust you're feeling a little less reckless this morning?" His tone is light.

Tony isn't stupid. He knows exactly what that sentence is for. Loki is feeling him out for whether they're actually going to talk, or whether Tony has chickened out. "Yeah," he mumbles, and then stalls by taking a long drink of the water. Slowly, carefully, he picks up the sandwich and takes bite, chewing as long as possible and thinking that at least he can say that he doesn't want to eat too fast.

Loki, strangely, allows it without comment. He's not usually one to let Tony screw around and pretend that everything is fine when it isn't, but right now he seems perfectly content doing exactly that, just watching Tony eat.

When Tony has finished half of his sandwich and Loki is still quiet, he realizes exactly what's happening. Loki is really going to let Tony pretend. Whatever he said in those phone calls, Loki is going to let him ignore it if he wants to.

For some reason, this makes Tony not want to. "So, you called me last night," he blurts out before he loses his courage.

"I did." Loki sips his coffee, hiding the bottom half of his face behind it.

Loki's face has a great range of editorial expressions. Tony is only realizing it now, but he's learned to glean Loki's mood from the way his eyebrows are tilted, or how deep the lines around his mouth are. From the way the corners of his eyes are crinkled, Tony can tell he's amused. Perversely amused. Asshole. "Okay, out with it, what did I say?"

Unexpectedly, Loki blushes lightly and looks away from him. "You told me that I have very soft lips." he responds quietly. "And that you liked my hair. And that you were jealous that I call Steve by his name and not you."

Oh god, no wonder Loki has been calling him _Tony_ today. "Uh." Tony clears his throat. His face feels hot. Is he blushing? "Anything else?"

Loki licks his lips. His eyes do that weird thing again, jumping to Tony's face, then down, then to the side. "You... confessed your undying love for me," he says casually, betrayed only by the tiniest smile tugging at his lips.

With effort, Tony keeps himself from grimacing. "Um, sorry about that."

Loki's eyes snap up to meet his. "Why?"

Tony isn't honestly sure about that, once he thinks about it. Still, though, he has to say something. "I… didn't embarrass you? Like, throwing all that feeling at you?" He says '_feeling_' like how other people might say cockroaches.

They're both quiet for a moment, and Loki's lack of answer makes Tony worry that he has just made a terrible mistake. Did he take back the love confession? Maybe? He's not sure he's in love, as he's never been in love before, but he's not sure he isn't either. He starts to open his mouth.

And then, instead of either speaking or allowing Tony to stick his foot in his own mouth, Loki leans in and kisses him again.

Tony is no less stunned this time, but at least now he has the excuse of a hangover. Loki tastes of coffee, and when he leans away after only a short chaste peck of a kiss, Tony chases his mouth and almost falls off his chair.

He drops his sandwich on the plate in front of him without even looking at it, and fists his hand in that long wavy hair of Loki's, pulling him back into another kiss.

It feels perfect. It feels even more perfect when Loki melts into him and gives over to the kiss completely.

_How was I ever afraid of this? _Tony wonders, groaning into Loki's mouth, his other hand cupping Loki's cheek so he can turn Loki's head to the perfect angle to—"Fuck," he says, pulling away as if scalded. He wipes his hand desperately on his jeans. "I'm so sorry, I got grease all over your hair."

Loki blinks at him twice before bursting into laughter—full belly laughter, with snorts, completely undignified and nothing like the poised, classy man Tony knows he pretends to be.

Tony watches him for a second. "Excuse me, I've never been gay before. I thought you people cared about that sort of thing," he jokes, grinning, which sets Loki off again. He starts laughing, too, because this is just ridiculous. Who the fuck cares about grease in hair when they are making out? Goddam it.

When they both calm down, Tony finds that they are sitting much closer than before, and he really can't bring himself to mind. "So, what other embarrassing things did I say?"

Loki just shakes his head, eyes dancing mischievously. "I 'lovya' too, you idiot," he murmurs, grabbing Tony's hand and squeezing it.

**The end**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Thanks for reading! I hope you liked our fic enough to leave a review :D


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